


some killer queen you are

by katawaredoki (kayselya)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Era, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, finally finished this omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayselya/pseuds/katawaredoki
Summary: Kuroo Tetsurou was a myth to most people, but an ordinary young man with odd interests to few. He saw himself as rational, or at least he strived to be. But when a stranger came stumbling into their lives, even his reason was defenseless to liking - and perhaps, to something more than that.





	1. stolen

**Author's Note:**

> i've come to realize three fundamental truths (at the exact same time) as i started this fic:
> 
> 1\. reader-inserts are no joke. it's a difficult genre (the 'you' pronoun will be the death of a writer if done wrong). this took me two months to plan, and more excruciating months to have myself sit down and just do it. i asked myself countless times: how should i deliver this, another one of those kuroo/reader inserts that seem to be everywhere? what makes it different? will this be a work i'm going to be proud of? who's going to read it? even now i still have these doubts.
> 
> 2\. while fanon kuroo is the hotshot we all dream of, i hold canon kuroo more dearly that i needed to do him justice, so this came to be. i tried my best to make him real, along with the nekoma boys, and detaching myself from this universe once i'm done might be a lot harder than i thought. this turned out to be more of a kuroo-centric fic, because who wouldn't want to know him more- even if it's just constructed by the imagination?
> 
> 3\. and lastly: i'm thankful for you, rayel, because you stayed with me throughout and believed in me when i didn't. here's to more early morning and late night chats with your tolerating my crazy ideas continents away.
> 
> disclaimer: praise be to bleachers for the main title, and to dashboard confessional for the chapter titles.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this.
> 
> A girl was standing on the doorway of the gymnasium: sailor fuku uniform, knee-length socks, umbrella in hand. The drizzle made pattering beats on the roof, but he might had just mistaken those sounds for the one banging in his chest.

It was October when you met them.

 

It was the godless month when you met him.

 

The elders used to say it rained most in the tenth month because the gods were away. You thought that if you prayed, nobody would answer; except, perhaps, the one god who could not hear the gongs signaling the migration of the deities. There, at the most ancient shrine, this one god would not be present. This one god would stay with the mortals in autumn bliss. This god of luck and of fishermen would alone answer your prayers.

 

It was the godless month when you met him.

 

You were not exactly praying for someone, but he came around as though out of pure luck. To say that meeting this young man with the most disheveled of hairstyles was a coincidence, an accident, would not be so true. It was still divine intervention, no matter how small the nuisance.

 

You always had this tendency to be indecisive.

 

He had never encountered this tendency.

 

When you stepped in that gymnasium, more confident than nervous, you realized that such a decision was not because of impulse at all. You were sure for the first time.

 

When he saw you step in the gymnasium, equally tired as the rest of the team, he thought－much to his surprise－that he couldn't decide what that feeling was for the first time.

 

You became less indecisive when you agreed to become their manager.

 

He became less decisive when he couldn't distinguish instantaneous attraction to a mere tentative occurrence caused by his own hormones.

 

He only realized later on that distinguishing what it was would be pointless.

 

You were just lucky. He was, too.

 

And both of you reached a decision to leave it at that.

 

* * *

 

The daruma was staring back, with only one eye, from its place on the bedside table: the black pupil fixated on your reflection in the mirror. Ten months ago, you bought it from the shrine where you and your family had always been on New Year’s day. You drew one eye as you returned home, the goal still raw in your head. You promised, more like vowed, that you'd accomplish the goal this year: you'd be able to write another pupil on the daruma's eerie face and be satisfied. It was common to make a wish to the doll and draw on it again the moment one's wish was fulfilled, but you'd rather not wish something close to the unattainable. You'd rather set a goal to be fulfilled by yourself alone.

 

 _Do something you truly want._ You repeated the goal quietly as you dressed up for school. You closed your eyes for a second, slowing down your breath, only to open them again and possess a thought clearer than before: you had to make decisions on your own now. You had to assert independence, to at least try and break free from the household that restrained you. Not because you weren't thankful for what they had been giving you all your life, but because you couldn't imagine yourself relying on somebody else's decisions anymore. You were never the problematic student, not even the least bit as a daughter, but you knew staying on a safe place would not last forever. You had already proven yourself to be worthy of whatever freedom they could give. It was the sole thing you needed for now. You just had to ask, again and again. And if they still wouldn't listen, you could act and be done with it.

 

You could finally join a club, feel a bigger sense of purpose, and find yourself working with other people. For two and a half years in high school you hadn't done anything but persistently stay in class five drowning in the pool of academics. Extracurricular activities were just distractions, cumbersome, a bother. They weren't required of you anyway. But, you couldn't deny, you were missing out on something.

 

The question then was, where would you go?

 

.

 

Kuroo Tetsurou would never run out of things to think about. A week before the Spring Interhigh Preliminaries, however, he had more things to think of and they were nearly spilling out of his mind. He was spiraling into insanity (at least, that’s what he felt), and there was no way out.

 

He was walking at his regular pace, beside Kenma, on the way to school for morning practice. It was starting to rain more often now. The middle part of October warranted either humid days or windy ones, depending on the erratic swings of the weather, and the downpour would usually follow in the afternoon. As the weather minded its own unpredictable business, his thoughts too were in some sort of a commotion. The sounds from Kenma's game console devolved to a buzz as he, out of habit again, succumbed to his bad habit of overthinking.

 

The team still had a lot to work on within a week. By a lot to work on, he mostly meant lanky-legged and childish Lev. The self-proclaimed ace still couldn't get in sync with their setter, as though the hardcore training from summer were thrown to waste. How on earth would the battle of the trash heap become a living dream if they were only good at receives? It was not enough. They also had to force themselves to grow. Given their small number of members and unbreakable camaraderie, such could be possible. So, one problem analyzed.

 

He also had to start thinking more about college. His grades were fine, better than assumed actually, but his future was still a blur. Glancing at a robotic Kenma, he decided to leave the thought for later at night. So, another problem temporarily done.

 

Breaking the silence, he just had to ask: "Is that a new game?"

 

"Yeah." And pudding-head just had to give out an automatic nonchalant answer.

 

"Care to tell what it’s about?"

 

" _The Imperial Quest_. As the emperor of my kingdom, I have to lead my army and save the dragon from evil forces."

 

"Didn't you just kill a dragon last week?"

 

"That was a different game," sighed Kenma, not once looking up. It was a wonder he never tripped on the sidewalk since day one of their friendship. "That was easier. I've been at this for forty-eight hours."

 

_Forty-eight hours?!_

 

"Um..." Kenma then looked up. "I've been playing this game for forty-eight hours including proper sleep and rest. Please stop it with that face."

 

 _What_ face?

 

"Good to hear." Kuroo nodded. At least there was no problem with _that_ to be so analytic about. Retrieving his thoughts, there was one more left to consider. To be frank, this specific thought wasn't more important than the others. He wasn't as perturbed by it in contrast to his studies, the Haiba Lev Problem, and Kozume Kenma's game addiction. Simply put, this had been a longstanding and heated issue frequently debated on by the team whenever Yamamoto brought it up. Their ace Yamamoto Taketora just didn't know when to keep shut about the Forbidden Topic.

 

_"You just want to do it for the ratings."_

 

_"That is not true, Kenma! Imagine the possibilities! This is our biggest 'what if'! Help me, Kuroo-san! This is a dire crisis we have!"_

 

_"Then go get a female manager for all I care."_

 

_"As captain you-"_

 

_"You're the one who desperately wants it."_

 

And that was that. The debate was closed, for a moment's peace, and Yamamoto _did_ try to find one; but expectedly failed, as no girl would dare talk to 'the creepy guy with the mohawk staring from the classroom window.' Besides, it was fun to torment Yamamoto and let the rest of the team be unenthusiastic about the idea of a female manager. So what if Karasuno had two? Nekoma was already in good shape for as long as Kuroo could remember, and no female manager was involved. But what _if_.

 

"Hey, Kenma."

 

"Huh."

 

"Can you imagine if we did have a female manager?"

 

Kenma stopped in his tracks, clicked pause on his console, faced Kuroo, furrowed his eyebrows, and tilted his head. The setter blinked, expression unreadable. All that Kuroo could do was avert his eyes, deepen his fists into the pockets of his pants, and pretend he never uttered the question. It was too late, though. He had inevitably caught Kenma's full attention.

 

"Now you want one too?" There was no hint of surprise in the setter's voice, but Kuroo knew when there actually was and when there was not. This time, there was an invisible mark of surprise; then it was _his_ turn to act all surprised.

 

"I was just asking!" Kuroo raised his hands in defense. "I don't want one."

 

"Yes you do."

 

"No."

 

"You do."

 

"I do not."

 

"Yes."

 

"Not."

 

"Fine." With a suspecting squint, Kenma hit resume on the console and walked ahead, leaving an annoyed Kuroo slouching. Who said he wanted a female manager? How could they possibly get one at this time of year and at this crucial state before the preliminaries? If they did get one, it would only add up to the things to work on. They would have to orient the hypothetical female manager with the technicalities of volleyball. They would have to keep an eye on her, and only Yamamoto wouldn't mind. To be precise, they might need one later, yes, but not _now_. Let the incoming third years face it themselves come March or April.

 

But to hell with it. What _if_. What the freaking _if_. Nekoma was already in good shape. Then would that logically mean they could be in _better_ shape?

 

Hitting a mental dead-end, Kuroo straightened up and trailed behind Kenma. One more pedestrian lane and they'd arrive at the school gates. As he caught up with the setter, it was compulsory to bring up a new topic. And so, the issue of Hypothetical Female Manager still remained a case unsolved.

 

"Is that game really that hard?"

 

"Someone in my year got to finish it. According to rumors," Kenma muttered as they entered the campus. It being too early in the morning, only a few students and maintenance crew were around. "Technically, she has the highest score."

 

"She?!"

 

"Mm-hm."

 

"Wow." Somebody beat _the_ Kozume Kenma and that somebody was a girl? "That's rough."

 

Ignored by the setter, Kuroo led the way to the gym, humming to himself. Did Kenma begin to show real competitive prowess just because of a game he couldn't win yet? Did Kenma actually care that he was losing? Would his friend since elementary years seriously surpass the forty-eight hour streak of non-stop gaming for the sake of winning a virtual game? Now if only Kenma applied that attitude to volleyball...

 

"You know," Kuroo halted at the front of the gym doors and turned back to Kenma. "That once-in-a-blue-moon competitiveness of yours will come in handy when coordinating tosses with Lev. Here I thought you're only showing your competitive side when Chibi-chan from Karasuno is around, but I guess I'm mistaken. Just show it more often now, yeah? We're gonna need it for that ticket to nationals."

 

Although vexed, and Kuroo didn't need his sixth sense to see it, Kenma nodded. With a quick change of their shoes, the two stepped in the gymnasium.

 

.

 

"I want to join a club."

 

The moment those words came out of your mouth, an imagined bomb struck the dinner table. Some held utensils dropped with a thump, and from where you sat you could feel your knees shaking. You waited for their response as you looked down and stirred the miso soup. Careful not to break the glassware, though your grip was firm than ever, you started counting. It took you until the ninth number before somebody around you had the nerve to speak.

 

When you glanced around, they didn't even look the slightest bit disappointed. On the contrary, the small knowing smiles and nods told you they were anticipating that decision to arrive. The conversation that followed, not as worse as you pictured it to be, still rang through your ears as you excused yourself early to bed. A part of you wanted them to retaliate, coerce you to not push through with the decision, because in the realest sense you had no clue what to do with your life starting now. It had begun: making choices and facing consequences on your own. With the condition that you wouldn't sacrifice academic life, the compromise was sealed.

 

You slid open the drawer from your bedside table and took out a black pen. Reaching out for the daruma doll, you drew what was once the missing pupil. Staring back, the object finally procured a complete set of eyes. Satisfaction was the word that coursed through you that night.

 

"This is going to be a lot harder than I thought," you said softly to yourself and to the rhythm of the autumn rain against your window. _Will I regret this?_

 

.

 

If he had to entertain one more thought that morning, he would reach a breakdown. Kuroo didn't have breakdowns frequently noticed by his peers, but when he did he was more reserved and serious than the typical. He wasn't the type to be asked if he were doing all right and give out a direct answer. To them, he was just being his scheming self when he talked less and trained more. To them, Kuroo was constantly the one asking others if they were doing all right. _He_ was the one bothered when someone close to him wasn't doing or feeling good. _He_ would go out of his way to make sure nobody was emotionally left out because _he_ couldn't help it. Call it selflessness and martyrdom, but that was how circumstances went for Nekoma's captain.

 

And, thankfully, with today’s training, the problems he had been mapping out in his head for the past few days were lessening at a gradual pace. He could relax, albeit tentatively, from the side of the court as he observed the team's progress.

 

"Your timing is off," an exasperated Kenma commented. From the net, Lev had the look on his face that spelled 'you-should-have-told-me-earlier' and was close to crouching to the setter's height. Yaku apparently saw this, triggering another one of those nasty abdominal kicks.

 

"I'm not letting my receives go to waste because of a simpleton like you!"

 

"Seriously, Yaku-san. That hurts."

 

"At least you get the idea of what it feels like whenever I'm called short."

 

"I'm not even joking around your height nowadays!"

 

"Well you're implying it!"

 

The duo got into an extra round of bickering before Kai mediated from the other side of the court. The three-on-three match turned out to be even more dragging when jostling was involved with every point lost in the Kenma-Lev-Yaku team. Inuoka and Shibayama just shared raucous laughs. From the sidelines, Kuroo had to restrain a guffawing Yamamoto. Even Fukunaga had to suppress a chuckle. Nekomata-sensei and Coach Naoi were the indifferent spectators. When it came to the necessities of handling problem children, the elders knew the team could work on it themselves: like the blood flowing in the veins, like the different organs of the body doing what they were meant to do in continuous coordination. All this made them singular.

 

 _Diverse personalities_ , Kuroo thought. _But on the court, we operate as a single cohesive unit_. And as if possessed by a sudden spark of melodrama, he admitted to himself that he would miss this day-to-day scenario when he’d have to leave.

 

"All right! Five-minute break!" Kai shouted at the end of the first set. The court cleared for a while, Yamamoto and Fukunaga rushed to practice their jump serves. Coach Naoi distributed water bottles. Standing idly with his arms crossed beside Nekomata-sensei's seat, Kuroo heard the old man address him.

 

"I can't help worrying about you lot when I'd leave." For someone feeling worry, sensei sure was a veteran in hiding that behind his cheerful disposition. So it wasn't just Kuroo who was thinking about leaving. Was sensei considering retirement for good, then?

 

"Huh? Sensei−"

 

"Don't get me wrong. I'm confident with Naoi-kun," the old man grinned at the captain. "But who will take care of the herd? We can't let anybody be a lost sheep. Kenma-kun can be a good captain. Tora, too. Still, there's something missing, isn't there? Someone who will keep watch and know what problematic adolescent males need to get their butts in check."

 

Kuroo's eyes widened at what shape his own eyes could permit. He may had been gaping at sensei's words as he absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. What he meant by undergoing a sense of calm earlier, he was dead mistaken. Could Nekomata-sensei be actually hinting the Hypothetical Female Manager? It wouldn't take a genius to go figure.

 

"Sensei, do you mean..." Kuroo divulged as he groped for the appropriate words. "Do you already have someone in mind to be our manager?"

 

"Manager?" the old man exclaimed, bringing every attention to the two of them conversing. He let out his signature heartfelt laugh and elbowed Kuroo. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm not implying such a thing! Unless Yamamoto here finally musters the courage of a hundred men to go talk to girls! You kids are already in tip-top shape, eh? We're headed to nationals! Don't mind the idea of trying out something new to get better results and be better motivated! Manager? Who says so? Kuroo-kun, you certainly know how to make an old man crack up."

 

Nekomata-sensei's laughter filled the entire gym, silencing Kuroo to contemplate reverse psychologies (because their old man had such kind of capabilities). The rest of the team only shared either significant or clueless looks, save for Yamamoto who was nearly bursting into helpless tears. From his peripheral vision, Kuroo saw Kenma approach his direction; the setter gripping the water bottle until his knuckles turned white. Face expressionless, but overall, odd. _What's with Kenma?_

 

While weighing the factors on whether or not Kozume Kenma was psychic, Kuroo froze as he registered the setter's words.

 

"I'm going on a suicide mission."

 

"Wha−?" So much for a captain momentarily robbed of eloquence that morning. "Kenma− are you− okay− wait− what do you mean sui− _are you even Kenma to begin with?_ "

 

"And I may regret this."

 

.

 

Being in class five didn't wholly mean prostrating yourselves to perfect grades and biased praises. Half the time, when the all-knowing sight of the teacher was away, students in the top class behaved as normal teenagers would. But out of this list of behaviors, you specifically couldn't understand what the commotion was about just because of a mundane video game. The class, moreover the whole second year, had been at it for three weeks tops: competing among themselves and other classes on who accomplished what, or who got the second highest score. Second highest, because, not one to brag, you technically had set the record for them to beat.

 

And the attention, while flattering at first, had eventually worn you out.

 

"Come on! Help us out! How did you win this?"

 

Reason number one and the sole reason: your classmates would never leave you in peace. Once the bell for lunch period had rung, you were practically cornered in your seat. You hadn't even opened your bento yet and here they were, approaching you with their game consoles and dewy-eyed faces asking for mercy. One of your friends even started calling you sensei.

 

"Not telling until I finish eating," you huffed. Your two companions did get the message, but instead took their places around you. "Are you seriously going to watch me eat?"

 

They nodded compliantly, the looks of determination not once faltering. As you whispered your thanks to the food laid in front, your friends fumbled with the buttons: the beeping and blasting sounds pestering you to no end. You couldn't resist taking a peek, while biting into the onigiri, and to your surprise you ended up impressed. They had a different strategy, but you still had to know if it were effective. Playing the game, you didn't really have the time to experiment other options. If they only knew how you did it then they wouldn't worship you that much.

 

"Do you guys have to sacrifice your stomachs for that silly game?"

 

"This isn't just some silly business," one of them retorted, angrily pushing buttons until the familiar game-over-sound could be faintly heard. "It's a matter of life. And death. In my case, death. Again. Why is it so hard?"

 

"Teach us, sensei!" the other pleaded, throwing down the console as though it were an object plagued with a contractible disease. You chuckled at the scene, patting them hard on the shoulders as you ate your vegetables. Seeing that they were hopeless, you closed your bento and quickly chugged your juice pack.

 

"Now let's see," you hummed and leaned on the chair. The two were instantly revived. "Ask your sensei and she shall give you answers."

 

"How did you do it?!" they chorused.

 

"I was just lucky." They rolled their eyes at that, but you shot them a glare. "I'm not even into games, okay? A cousin just visited and happened to force me into playing. What now? That's the truth. I swear to the gods."

 

Well, not really. It was October. And according to legends, the gods were away for the time being. All of them had gone to this annual grand convention strictly for the celestial, at the most ancient shrine in Japan, located at a mysterious countryside. Hence, Tokyo and the rest of the towns in the country, except for said mysterious countryside, were a no-god-zone. That was what your grandparents used to say.

 

"Lucky?! That's it?!"

 

"You're telling us fate had something to do with it? That's bull."

 

 _Yeah. Lucky._ Because if you remembered it right, only one god wasn't able to get the invitation _and_ not hear the gongs sounding the celestial convention. Was it Ebisu? Hiruko? The god of fishermen and of luck? So because of this god, there was still a little bit of fate involved.

 

But you'd be deemed crazier if you said that.

 

"Ever tried online game reviews?" you almost yawned, crossing your arms and putting up your feet on the table. "Those stuff tell you what to do. And besides, I played that for one whole week since it came out. It's not like I'm an expert blessed with speed and accuracy or something. That's the most honest answer I've got, all right?"

 

"So game reviews, huh."

 

"But that's cheating!"

 

It was your turn to roll your eyes. "It's called strategy. And for the most part, winning."

 

They shrugged, unsatisfied, thus you gave up trying to be the indirect helper. There was no point letting themselves find the answer when all you got were stubborn friends to deal with. You always, _always_ , wanted to please the ones you held dear no matter what.

 

"Let more men attack in the battlefield," you sighed and sat properly again. "Just keep the most skillful ones to defend the fortress and have them attack from above."

 

"But we're already doing that!"

 

"I wasn't finished, dumbass. Try a decoy." You tapped your fingers impatiently on the table, recalling the strategy you did prior. "The sorcerer must have ample time to keep the dragon alive. Once the dragon's cured, get ready to win."

 

They glanced at their consoles then back to you, wonder and realization gradually ebbing their once desperate faces. You smirked and waved them off.

 

"Thank me later. You guys owe me yakisoba bread."

 

You were set to packing your bento and bottle when the class representative called out your name. Asking what it was about, you found out some two guys were at the door. Asking _who_ they were, you only received a shrug. Curious, but slightly troubled because you still had to cram your homework for next period, you walked to the door. The two guys mentioned weren't just guys for starters. They were complete strangers.

 

"How can I help you?"

 

One of them was shorter than the other. This guy in question had dyed blond hair reaching his chin, with eyes fixated on his shoes. The other guy in question was much taller, with messily trimmed ashen hair and an expression that was just as clueless as yours. He looked like he wasn't much of a talker, but his gaze was direct. The only idea you had of these two were that they were fellow second years and nothing more.

 

The tall guy scratched his head and looked over to the shorty. They elbowed for a moment before the blond one squared his shoulders. He still avoided eye contact by glancing sideways.

 

"I am never good with people, but," he was almost whispering, enabling you to close the distance to comprehend what he had to say. Instinctively, shorty stepped back as though being attacked. You yelped an apology, but he continued talking nonetheless. "I heard about you and was... how should I put this... intrigued? We're... uh... from the boy's volleyball team and we'd like to ask if−"

 

"Oh."

 

It took you a second to recognize your own voice. Could these guys be searching for members? You did try asking your classmates if they were still accepting recruits at this late in the year, miserably leaving you with closed doors. But these two…

 

Hold on. Boy's volleyball team? A sports club? For _boys?_

 

"We'd like to ask if you're interested in becoming our manager," blond guy finished off as though not hearing the single syllable of surprise you uttered. He probably didn't. You didn't care if he ever did. Head going blank, you couldn’t dare think in a coherent pattern at that exact millisecond.

 

Manager. To the boy's volleyball team. _Now?_

 

"Ohh."

 

You were the second person in Nekoma High to be robbed of eloquence that morning.

 

.

 

He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this.

 

Yesterday he felt like a shipwreck washed ashore after being beaten by a tumult of waves repeatedly. His mind simply shut down once he came home. Today, as though out of compensation, he woke up on the right side of the bed. Not that Kuroo had other ways of waking up than finding his head buried between two pillows, but, he just felt _good_.

 

Coupled with the fact that his mother cooked an amazing breakfast and packed his favorite meal, he felt more at ease. He thought it was too strange, like the universe was conspiring _for_ him to meet his needs. Kuroo waited for the smallest hint of misfortune to knock him over. But he found none and instead, strange occurrences just kept unfolding one after another.

 

Exhibit A: Kozume Kenma.

 

_"Oi, Kenma. You're in a pleasant mood today."_

 

_"I won the game I've been telling you about."_

 

_"Congrats?"_

 

_"And I survived the suicide mission."_

 

_"What the hell even is that?! Since when have you kept a secret from me?!"_

 

It was futile to ask, yet he no longer minded if there was a secret in the first place. Kuroo was already content in seeing the rare sight of a less passive Kenma, this side of Kozume Kenma that relished in his dumbfounded state and inner suffering. To top it all off, the setter was seen half the day too without his twin brother, the game console. Kuroo had to smack his cheeks a couple of times to make sure he wasn't dreaming when he saw Kenma being more patient with Lev that their team had taken consecutive sets.

 

It wasn't a dream, he was convinced, when he received his test score in physics. Such was exhibit B: he got three digits _and_ extra points. No, it wasn't the wrong paper given to him. There was his name, adorned with red check marks. It was euphoria.

 

Exhibit C: He could consistently spike crosses without going out of bounds.

 

Exhibit D: He was praised on his recitation in literature class.

 

Exhibit E: Fukunaga uttered two sentences.

 

Exhibit F: This.

 

He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to _this_.

 

A girl was standing on the doorway of the gymnasium: sailor fuku uniform, knee-length socks, umbrella in hand. The drizzle made pattering beats on the roof, but he might had just mistaken those sounds for the one banging in his chest. He was more nervous at _this_ moment than he had ever been in tournaments. It wasn't only him who looked for an explanation, who _looked_ at _her_. Everybody did. Everybody without the inclusion of Fukunaga and Kenma.

 

If this were the suicide mission his dear secretive friend was talking about, then he was the one surely to die at the sight of the girl on the doorway.

 

Kuroo was glued on the spot. His teammates moved past him, forming an arch around the mysterious presence; still gaping, still unbelieving. The scene almost reminded him of mortal men surrounding a miraculous appearance of a goddess. Nekomata-sensei's grin grew wider from where the old man watched at the back. Coach Naoi stood like a proud parent. Kenma and Fukunaga exchanged nods, bumping fists.

 

All the days of his third year life, he never saw a girl willing herself to stand at the gym's entrance. Right here, she might had been just passing by to say hello to one of them or to talk to the teachers, but no. They knew from the get-go. They need not be told why she was here.

 

_She won't be hypothetical anymore._

 

The captain began calculating the time elapsed in silence, until Yamamoto wailed.

 

And fainted.

 

"IS HE OKAY?!"

 

It was the girl who shouted, stepping inside out of panic. Realization dawning on her, she stopped halfway through. She turned pink, covered her mouth with her hand; and meanwhile, the current Nekoma team all hunted for lost speech in their throats. The way her voice bounced off the walls and landed on Kuroo's ears was like foreign music with unknown lyrics, but bearing a catchy tune he wouldn't forget for days. Her voice was the oasis in a desert.

 

But, unlike an oasis, this moment wasn't constructed by the imagination.

 

"Um!" She placed her hands on the sides, bowing at a ninety degrees. "I apologize! It's a pleasure to meet you! I am−"

 

Her name disappeared with the abrupt thundering voices of the team coming together. Eight boys, without the ace, returned the bow with fervor and reverence. It was though that they, _he_ , was brought back to life.

 

"Please take care of us!"

 

"Y-yes! It would be an honor!"

 

Kuroo Tetsurou could get used to such a voice. When he looked up, she was smiling and it was contagious. Yamamoto regained consciousness, greeting her and apologizing with a sob fit for a two year-old. Yaku and Kai started talking to her normally. Inuoka and Lev did a solid high-five. And the captain− S _tupid. I should be doing something!_

 

He joined the third years shortly, wondering if he looked like a madman or if he could pass as an ordinary human. When Kai gestured to Kuroo, he was spared from the thought and bowed slightly, acknowledging her. She easily got comfortable in speaking to them. But would he, in turn, achieve that level of comfort in speaking to her?

 

"Kuroo Tetsurou, captain. It's nice to meet y−"

 

"Thank you for winning a lot of games for Nekoma, Kuroo-san!"

 

His speech came out well enough. Would she always be this lively and endearing?

 

"I heard great stuff about you guys!" she went on, as if affirming his musings. "Also, would you want me to call you third years senpai? Huh. Come to think of it, I should have done so from the very beginning. I can start over, Kuroo-sen−"

 

"Ah you don't have to!" He raised both his hands, chuckling. "Kuroo-san is fine."

 

_Better, actually._

 

"Then I'm thrilled to work with you all." The corners of her mouth formed a smile again, making the fact that Yaku and Kai were still there with him slip off his hazy mind.

 

"Me too. I mean we− _us_ too." stuttered Kuroo and found Kenma smirking beside him. He'd have to confront the setter later. _Or should I thank this pudding-head after all?_

 

He was aimlessly looking for an explanation on how it arrived to this, but maybe there was really no explanation necessary. He could accept the hunch that he woke up on the right side of the bed. He could embrace the theory that the universe may had been conspiring for him, or he could just say he got lucky that day.

 

_Yeah. Lucky._


	2. rooftops and invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kuroo-san likes to act all smooth and suave," Lev supplemented, looking proud of himself for exacting revenge at the captain who sentenced him to merciless penalties. "We just let him be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the rare few for your kudos, comments, bookmarks, and even to those who simply clicked the story because they were curious! if it isn't too much to ask, do coerce me to finally write the last chapter (because i purposefully do other writing projects instead).
> 
> and yes, rayel (though you may never get to read this here at all), the happiest of birthdays, my love.

They kept surprising you in more ways than one. You couldn't exactly say that life before them was black and white, dull, monochrome. Life before the Nekoma team was already in color, but you didn't quite expect it to be more vivid and saturated once stumbling across their world. The situation was, for lack of better analogy, like adopting nine cats you found in a box on a rainy day. True, it would be a tough responsibility to look after these nine boys, but it was the kind of responsibility that you never knew would make you glad. You were insane enough to accept the position of manager to begin with.

 

_And insane enough to dare keep up with their antics._

 

Two days since, not much coping with testosterone-filled antics had been revealed. Not yet.

 

_But still sane enough to learn bits of information about them and their routines._

 

It was a work in progress. Eventually, and to be honest, you had to give up reading _Volleyball for Dummies_. Research, too, wasn't worth the all-nighters. Taking down notes while you observed them was the more viable method inasmuch as theory versus practice was concerned.

 

Speaking of practice,

 

"STRAY BALL!"

 

You heard someone shout. It was possible that the voice was Inuoka's, but the reaction time between voice recognition and the impending doom of having a volleyball collide with your face was too short. A split second later, you looked up from your scribbled notes to find the captain blocking your view.

 

He, Kuroo Tetsurou, saved the ball: too tall and looming to have one arm outstretched like a shield. That was the only thought you were able to process as you stared at his back. Where the _hell_ did he come from?

 

"Sorry about that." He glanced around, wiping the sleeve of his black shirt on his forehead. "You better watch out for those. You all right?"

 

"Y-yeah. Thanks."

 

He gave you half a smile before returning to court, and you failed to notice your stomach doing a somersault, but−

 

It wasn't the same as the intimidating smirks he would normally give a slacking teammate (such as its frequent recipient, the Russian-Japanese first year, Lev). It wasn't the same as Yaku's or Kai's warm grins, either. It wasn't like Yamamoto's overflowing with enthusiasm (and strained mumbles you couldn't help but find amusing). To cut it short, there wasn't the dashing or awe-striking element in Kuroo's smiles. He wasn't that type of high school boy in general. He didn't try to. He emitted more of a mysterious and lax persona that could mislead others to thinking there were better (and livelier) boys to chase.

 

Not that you were ignorant of gossip circulating the school. Not that he didn't have a number of admirers. Not that some girls thought him appealing because he was intelligent and a club captain and tall and that his hair demanded to be tamed and he always looked sleepy and his voice had this sleepy rhythm to it too and−

 

Oh why were you even giving him that much of a thought?

 

_Right. I'm supposed to think that their reflexes as athletes are almost superhuman._

 

Athletes. Maybe that was why you gave him such a careless thought. He was an athlete. And damn the shoujo mangas for romanticizing the athlete male trope that even you, a girl who only had about under five fleeting crushes in your lifetime, fell victim to.

 

Fell. Crush. _No way._

 

But was having one that fast?

 

Not that you saw him as one, _right?_

 

"Ah crap," you sighed and went back to writing on your clipboard. If you had to work with the team, then the slightest interest in one of them would hinder you from productivity. Or to an extent, getting along with them all. You weren't there to search for a romantic interest. God knows what would happen to the team's foundations if you did and favored _one_.

 

So yes. The captain was just a potential crush as the rest of them were potential romantic interests. Potential and it should stay that way.

 

You turned your attention back to practice. Watching them play had your eyes shifting too quickly from one side of the court to the other. The sport was all about speed, gaining momentum, starting fast and ending fast, making your heart race even from the sidelines. There was the anticipation, the rush, and the ecstasy of the ball striking with a deafening bam echoing against the walls. They fought with an infallible willpower to keep the ball up, only to fight with the same intensity to have it fall on the side of the court not theirs. The most unexpected the attack, the better. But that didn't mean a formulated one had less significance.

 

In bounds. Out. Feint. Spike. Kill. Block. Serve. One touch. Chance ball. Toss.

 

Each term learned and witnessed, you made sure to ingrain at the back of your hand. Remembering them would be like knowing the lines, which intersect and which did not, on your palm. You still had a long way to go, but if you considered recalling the plays as a habit, then you could survive.

 

Receive. They were consistent in that aspect. No matter what happened, they saved the ball in order to return it or to take it to their advantage. They weren't just consistent. They were amazing. Seeing a game up close and personal was so unlike the ones you saw on television.

 

"If there's one thing Nekoma's good at," said the old coach beside you. You turned to look at him beaming, that cheery mood of his was consistent too. "It's total defense. We may not be that striking compared to others, but, our receives make up the team's reputation."

 

"They really do live up to the name," you grinned back. "They move swiftly like cats that it's difficult to just focus my attention on a single player. In a short span of time, while one side has the ball, I have to watch them all work."

 

"Then you understand the basics. They move as one."

 

You nodded, shifting your gaze to the four-on-four match, where the two liberos would occasionally come in. The team was the welcoming kind of people. Though you found them intimidating at first, the feeling quickly faded and was replaced by acceptance you didn't deserve. Two days ago, it was like they knew you for a long time. You didn't know them, not even once, but it was like they waited for you to arrive. They showed no hesitation in welcoming you that one afternoon, and you were never the same since then.

 

"Thank you for having me, sensei," you thought out loud. You owed them this. You owed them this feeling of acceptance. It was only right to swear that you'd be the best manager they’d ever have.

 

The old man chuckled. "We should be the one thanking you. You have no idea how long these boys were looking for a manager. Now it's like they've grown up to be men."

 

"Will they be okay in the preliminaries?" It was a few days away, after all. The more appropriate question was, however, _Will_ I _be okay in the preliminaries?_

 

"They'll be better than before.” And that was the best reassurance you could get.

 

Coach Naoi blew the whistle, ending the practice. The boys immediately followed to do their stretches. It was time for you as well to hand out the towels and water bottles, the first years basically bouncing to your direction.

 

"You guys were great today!" you remarked and gave each of the three double high-fives. Their tired faces instantly lit up.

 

"I still got a scolding, though," sighed Lev, wringing the towel around his neck. With such a towering height, you literally had to look up to him. "Man... I gotta be the ace by nationals."

 

"I heard that!" Yamamoto shouted as he mopped the floors.

 

"Why can't we have two aces?!"

 

"That's why it's called the ace, dumbass! You don't see two aces in a deck of cards, remember?"

 

It was a lovely opportunity to be a constant witness to their bickering. While they were at it, Shibayama and Inuoka volunteered to put the balls back in the cart. You went ahead and approached the third years, stack of white towels on your arms.

 

"It's like raising children," Yaku grunted and drank from his bottle.

 

"You don't have to take all the burden, you know," shrugged Kai. "You'll get old a lot faster."

 

"Cherish your youth, Yakkun!" Kuroo appeared between them and slung his arms around the two. How the team bonded and treated each other was... remarkable. It was your first time to notice something that closely knitted outside of family. Perhaps it was exactly how they saw the team: as a family.

 

The second years shortly joined the benches after a round of wiping, and you were left to roll the cart into the storage closet. As soon as you sauntered away, you were already lost in your own thoughts to hear the raucous voices turn hushed. Coach Naoi instructed you to do an inventory of the materials inside. For about five minutes you busied yourself ticking boxes on your clipboard and tallying numbers. Everything was still in excellent condition, according to your amateur standards as manager. The only thing worth noticing was the dust and grime of the shelves. You took note of it for the meantime.

 

Stepping outside, there they were. They, off to surprise you again in more ways than one.

 

"What the−" you whispered, taking in how all nine boys were lined up and playing innocent: three first years, three second years, three third years. Clashing with the diverseness of their heights was the variety of their faces. Some displayed excitement, as though this was the coolest idea to ever grace their heads. Some displayed annoyance, as though left with no other choice. They probably didn't have a choice. Kenma's face guaranteed that.

 

"Places!" the captain shouted from where he was at the end of the line, and all at once they turned their backs. "Let's give our manager an official rite of passage!"

 

"What are you−" you reacted much louder, but it was too late. Kuroo counted to three and the story of the day you died had begun. From the leftmost part, each player lifted his black shirt: followed by the next, the next, and the next. Each one of them, discarded of upper clothing, had their backs painted in red bold letters and characters.

 

You were long gone to take a shot at covering your eyes. Their broad-shouldered backs screamed _"Welcome!"_ and the captain ended the message with a smiling emoticon. How somebody could let you live down this moment was beyond an impossibility. You would never recover from this collective feat as close as giving you a heart attack.

 

And to think it was your first time to see them shirtless. _All_ of them.

 

"WHY−" you choked on air, bowing just so you could not look at them. You heard a couple of snickering, but other than that the gym was silent. "I MEAN− thanks for the welcome− the welcoming− _this_! You guys didn't have to bother you didn't have to really you could have just−"

 

"It's the least we could do."

 

You had only been there for two days. But in those two days of coming to grasps with familiarity, that voice only belonged to one person; recognizable even when you needed not to see. Kuroo's tone just then was humbling. You straightened up.

 

"Your arrival changed us in a way," he continued, hands on his hips, and tilting his head to look at you. The red smiley on his back was too much of an attention-grabber, indeed, but you couldn't avoid that expression of his. He had the face of an honest person, kind even, that was often betrayed by his gruff features.

 

When response failed you, he completely turned around. Out of instinct and _dear God do I have to see the front of a shirtless man_ , you bowed again. Kuroo's laughter only served to accelerate the blood creeping up your cheeks.

 

"And I'm sure it'll bring more nice changes, so," but that didn't stop him from continuing. "Thank you. Thank you for having us because we are thankful to have you."

 

With the way your heart was racing, you had to clench your shirt. He was... too kind for your own good that you didn't know if you could keep up. You didn't know how you would repay him, _them_. Daring to take a peek, you were relieved to see them putting on their shirts.

 

 _But_ am _I really?_ Still, shirtless athletes would have to be a frequent sight starting now.

 

"Then I'll work hard as your manager," you finally replied, this time standing upright for good. "Even if I only have a year left in school, I wouldn't miss this for the world. And having the chance to know you guys, I don't regret my decision at all."

 

There no longer was the variety of facial expressions. They smiled in unison and nodded their heads. You closed the gap in between, searching for more things to say until you found the right one.

 

"Do your best in the preliminaries, okay?"

 

"Yeah!" and just like that they were revived. They couldn't seem to run out of energy.

 

"We'll make it your best first tournament experience!" Inuoka chimed in, and Fukunaga seconded the motion with a nod. Kenma gave a thumbs up.

 

"It'll be a series of unforgettable victories!" Shibayama jumped beside the group, almost knocking Fukunaga over. Yaku gave you an apologetic look, but you could sense he was more glad than sorry for the rowdy problem children.

 

As the rest of them proceeded to the club room to pack their belongings and prepare to leave, you sat on the bench for a moment's time. You were about to be immersed in your thoughts again when the captain was suddenly shadowing over you. Again.

 

He could literally show out of nowhere, _and I still won't notice_.

 

"Would you like to join us for lunch tomorrow?" he asked, occupying the space beside you and resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze was intent, and he was just... too close.

 

"Oh um− lunch?" _Stop making a fool of yourself right this instant._

 

"What I meant to say is," he brought a hand to his nape. "The team always takes lunch together at the school's rooftop. The third years insisted on this tradition or something, but really it's just an excuse to pick at others' food, and so we−"

 

"Sure!" You brought a hand too at the back of your neck. The number one reason being that, to hell with it, why we were you getting flustered all of a sudden? You were just talking to him, for crying out loud. But that was the point. _You_ were talking to _him_. _He_ was talking to _you_. To make matters worse (or better), the talking was done in private.

 

"That'd be nice!" you forced the words out your mouth and saw his shoulders relax. You couldn't help copying the way he eased, because you were both relieved and nervous without admitting why.

 

"Great." He stood, and you did. "The gym's closing now, so we have to head outside."

 

He led the way, big strides doing you injustice as you tried to keep up. Beyond the gym doors, the peak of the sunset was blinding. You forgot how quickly time flew by during practice. Glancing at the club room building, the boys were already waiting near the doors: bags slung across their shoulders, red jackets and pants shielding them from the autumn wind.

 

"Oi, Kuroo!" Yaku exclaimed. "Hurry up and change! We're starving!"

 

Kuroo jogged inside, sticking a tongue out at Yaku before disappearing. As he was gone, just then you remembered that _you_ had your own belongings to attend to and that they were in the club room and so it turned out you also had to hurry−

 

"I brought it for you!" Yamamoto held out your bag, saving you from the self-embarrassment of forgetting simply because you were too engrossed talking to the captain. Approaching the others, there was no mistaking that their raised eyebrows and smirks meant another thing. How ridiculous did you honestly look walking around with him like that?

 

"Thank you, Tora-san." You took the bag and slung it on your shoulder. Yamamoto beamed proudly, sticking his chest out as though he were the hero of the day. _Well_ , he kind of was. And from day one of seeing him faint and trip over his own words, the current Yamamoto was all improved and confident like the ace on court he was.

 

There was the sound of doors locking shut, and a jacket-clad Kuroo joined the group. He motioned for the way out the campus, respective conversations naturally springing up as you walked with the team. You busied yourself with the first years: two out of three pleaded for you to tutor them, which you couldn't decline. Kenma, game console in hand, was persistently being bugged by the ever so loud Yamamoto; the latter throwing questions about what game was it this time. The rest, if not preoccupied with bickering, were analyzing their plays and thinking of strategies to try. Walking with them to stop for food, and sending one another home or at the train station, was becoming your own tradition too.

 

It was refreshing. This newness of being with them. This assurance like they were there to watch your back. There were no more after-school days of heading straight home alone, pedaling your bike, as the boredom of routine slowly took its toll. Even if the change had you balancing club activities and studying, you felt free. You were reborn. And this had ought to be the top in your list of best decisions ever made.

 

But the thing was, the imaginative list in question didn't exist until now.

 

.

 

Kuroo was part meticulous, part human. He was the organizer on and off court. Where Karasuno called him the cunning type, he called it just being meticulous. Kenma saw it as being too observant. But when Kuroo uttered the synonymous word ‘punctilious’ (he had learned it in English class, punctuating the letter T with the click of his tongue against his teeth) Kenma took it back and called him a nerd instead. The conversation ended with Kenma's _"You have the vocabulary of a nineteenth-century man."_ Kuroo considered it a compliment.

 

This personality of his being attentive to detail was both a blessing and a curse.

 

If only his instincts wouldn't kick in whenever _she_ was with them. Which, by the way, was actually on a regular basis, that the frequency of it was starting to become as natural as his instincts. He already found it unavoidable to study her mannerisms (no matter how much he justified it as catching her actions "accidentally"); already found it inevitable to note that she would crack her knuckles when unsure of what to say. Though, if he were to admit to himself, was a total lie. She _knew_ all the right words to say; knew how to cheer them on, how to carry authority yet still stand on equal ground. Kuroo had reached the conclusion that she had this air about her that appeals to everyone, like she was made to _fit in_ with them. It had just been a week (and much later, would become months), but lunch period at the school rooftop was something he now looked forward to second to volleyball practice.

 

 _She_ changed his preference with women. He'd love to kick his first-year self in the gut for arguing that he preferred long-haired girls (while Yaku defended the short-haired ones). None of that mattered to Kuroo now. Preferences based on hair length was a mere ancient social construct, that what he began to realize as important was the way a woman would make him feel. Because, as it turned out, he'd feel intrigued by her whenever she was around. He'd look beyond the hair, the skin complexion, the eyes, the curvature of the body (but that didn't mean they were unimportant). She made him feel like he desperately wanted to know more about her, sporting a long hair or a short one. Being a middle blocker didn't entail being able to block feelings, unfortunately.

 

And he swore to the gods that she looked adorable when she'd furrow her eyebrows. The scene that unfolded before him could testify to that.

 

"What is it this time?" she told Yamamoto who, after the team exited the court, gave her fresh flowers with that big childish smile on his face. They just had their second game of the day, and their last for quite some time, earning them a spot to the Tokyo representative match. Getting through the preliminaries gave Nekoma higher spirits and a renewed sense of courage, as exhibited by their ace.

 

"Just a thank-you-gesture for standing by us today!" Yamamoto bowed, extending the daisies. Those poor plants had to be picked by this mohawked weirdo outside the gymnasium. She chuckled, her furrowed eyebrows gone, but adorable even still. She cast a glance at Kuroo. The captain tilted his head towards the flowers and shrugged. She accepted the daisies with a curtsy.

 

"You all should stop being too nice to me, you know." She patted Yamamoto's shoulder and laid the bag of energy bottles on the floor outside the changing room. The rest of the team snickered as they filed in. "Worst case scenario is I'd get used to it."

 

"You don't want to?" Kuroo asked, lingering by the threshold, a towel draped around his neck. Kai pushed him inside. _Geez, what a cockblocker._

 

"I'm not a princess. I'm a queen. And the queen shall wait at the lobby!" she called out, before closing the door as Fukunaga was the last one to enter. Her wit was something, really. And they were almost always taken aback by that side of hers. In the end, they'd just be amused.

 

As the team changed from their drenched uniforms and freshened up, Yaku was the first to break the ice. (Lev was too busy agonizing over his "mediocre" performance awhile ago, so he wasn't one to be talkative just yet.)

 

"If you're gonna court her, Yamamoto, send Kuroo here a notice."

 

Kuroo wasn't expecting _that_.

 

"WHAT?!" he and Yamamoto erupted in unison. Kenma sighed, a comment that all could hear escaping his breath: _"You're very transparent, Kuroo. Stop trying not to be."_ Inuoka seconded the motion with an obedient nod.

 

Unbelievable. Since when had the whole team betrayed the captain, the one who had sacrificed so much−to the detriment of his college counseling schedule−for them to land on nationals just months from now? And since when did he want to compete with Yamamoto over a girl?

 

"I'm not courting her!"

 

"I'm not attracted to her!"

 

Kuroo narrowed his eyes at Yamamoto, more so because of how in-sync their reponses were than the sketchiness of Yamamoto's answer. If he didn't know any better, Kuroo would say that Yaku missed the lie in those statements. But Yaku was already giving him that all-knowing _look_. There could only be one lie, and what Kuroo said was it.

 

"I just want us to be friends," Yamamoto murmured, tucking his shirt in a plastic bag. "I don't know how to court someone anyway. Hell I don't even know how to confess. I like her, yeah, but not that way. She's really cool to be a friend. Don't we all see her as that?"

 

"Yeah," they replied. Yaku slapped Kuroo's back a second later, though.

 

"Except for the captain!" God, why did their libero had to be such a mother? "That's already two lies you've said this day, Kuroo. Do us a favor and stop fooling yourself, will you?"

 

Kuroo groaned, running a hand to the pained area on his back. His teammates packed up one by one, zipping their bags and putting on their jackets, when he realized he'd be last to leave (because they _did_ just hijack him like that). As they made for the door, they sent their condolences individually.

 

"Just ask her out, Kuroo-san." _What the hell, Shibayama?_

 

"Message her every morning and every night." _Nobody asked for your opinion, Lev!_

 

"Bring her a packed bento everyday!" _That takes commitment, Inuoka._

 

"Keep her out of Bokuto's hands." _That is actually some solid advice, Kai._

 

"Ha! Good luck, Kuroo-san!" _Should I thank you, Yamamoto?_

 

"Go make out in the storage closet after every practice." _WHAT THE FUCK, KENMA?_

 

He was left gaping as Fukunaga gave him a thumbs up (Yaku was howling, and he had never seen that shorty so ecstatic before). At long last Kuroo was alone to groan much louder and tug at the permanent mess that was his hair. He was never vocal about his emotions, so how on earth did they get to read him? He always made sure he displayed confidence (the girls loved it, his teammates loathed it), but most of all he didn't _show_ whatever it was he felt at the moment. Only Kenma would know he was pissed at something, when Kuroo would put a stoic face and ball his fists inside the pockets of his pants. So the single probable evidence was he slipped somewhere. Kenma was one to talk for telling him he was being too observant.

 

"Do they see my pupils dilate or what?" Kuroo addressed thin air as he wore the red jacket over his black shirt. He tightened his shoelaces, grabbed his bag, and headed out. The team was huddled in a circle at the lobby, standing around Nekomata-sensei as Coach Naoi praised their work. A few pointers were given here and there, game weaknesses included (Yaku elbowed Lev). Kuroo found solace in distracting himself as he took every analysis in. Sensei then mentioned possible practice matches over the course of weeks leading up to the representative match in November. As the post-game meeting concluded, they exited the gymnasium and headed for the bus. Lost in thought, Kuroo didn't even notice she was walking beside him.

 

"You look like you've just seen murder."

 

"Hm?" He stopped in his tracks. He glanced at her. She was biting her lip. _Don't look at her doing that. It's gonna be unhealthy._

 

"Nah." She cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing him. He was melting, and he wished for the ground to swallow him whole. "You look like you're the one metaphorically murdered."

 

_I have to challenge Yaku to a duel later._

 

"Kind of." Kuroo pouted. He most probably appeared foolish doing so. He didn't care. They _did_ murder him, in a way. "Yeah you could say that."

 

"Mm-hm." She nodded slowly, then he was watching her retreating back as she disappeared into the bus. He quickened his pace, not wanting to be left behind again, and cursed himself for failing to manage at what seemed to be a flirting tactic. _Was_ she flirting? Or was it him assuming, hoping, wishing she _was_ flirting? Whatever the case, he obviously did not succeed in reciprocating either a flirtatious response or an attempt at casual conversation.

 

It sucked. _He_ sucked. In heaven and hell's name he badly wanted to talk to her more. Not one sane human ever dreamed of losing in any situation, and he wasn't an exception. Perhaps his teammates did make some sense. Perhaps he _would_ heed their crazy advice. Perhaps their saying so was the validation he needed, the literal push and slap on the back. What was holding him from trying to chase a girl, anyway? And if she'd chase in return, what would happen next? Not knowing excited him. He'd take his shot: fired up, but cautious still.

 

Yes, that's what he'd do: follow their manic advice, except for the packed bento (not yet). And _except_ for that outrageous storage closet bit.

 

Because, as much as he despised admitting it,

 

Kuroo Tetsurou had never been kissed.

 

.

 

"What do you think of Kuroo-san?"

 

Lev was the one to drop the question. A note of hesitance was evident in the way he had called your name: the honorific attached to it sounding uncertain, yet it gave away the feeling that he had been wanting to ask that particular question for some time. You paused from your helping the first years with their English grammar lessons, as lunch ended ten minutes ago and the third years left early for a career-counseling session. You had a few more minutes to spare before the bell would ring. At that outcome, the second years looked at you keenly from where they watched Kenma play his game.

 

You had a different answer, to tell the truth, and you could only think of one conceivable fact that exact moment: The beginnings of the November breeze at the school rooftop wasn't sufficient to mask the blush creeping up your cheeks. Suddenly, like some strange deja vu, you were transported back to the nerve-wracking pressure and heat of the volleyball court at the previous preliminaries.

 

"I apologize for asking something too personal!" Lev burst some seconds later, as though realizing the effect his first statement had on your complexion. That was a rare sight, Lev apologizing. You threw your head back to laugh, waving a hand to dismiss it off. There was no denying anyway that you did, in actuality, have your share of thoughts on the matter.

 

"I can't say much." You shrugged, stretching your legs atop the step of the bleachers below from where you sat. "I hardly know him and, I don't really go beyond having small talks with the person. I know and think of him as much as I know and think of you guys."

 

 _There._ It was a safe enough answer that needed no lies. You felt like gripping the bleachers the same way you held on to the bench for dear life when Nekoma fell behind during the second set just a week ago. But then they were right here, confident that they'd be a representative of Tokyo at nationals.

 

Inuoka gave a knowing nod. "So you _do_ want to know him better?"

 

"Honestly." You fidgeted with the collar of your uniform, choking out a nervous chuckle. "Where are these questions coming from? I thought we were deciphering an independent clause from a dependent one?"

 

"Yaku-san said−"

 

" _What Lev meant to say_..." Yamamoto cut in, glaring at the tallest one around. "Is that we also want to know you better. Which may or may not involve our captain."

 

"So we _are_ having honesty hour right now?" You glanced over at Kenma, who shrugged and feigned innocence. Come to think of it, it _had_ been a week of them (excluding Kuroo himself, of course) coaxing similar reactions from you. It wasn't obvious before, but it had all begun with Yaku and Kai mentioning his name more times as necessary whenever you were around. It started with commenting how Kuroo most probably had a different hairstyle during a weekend practice, which you didn't notice as there wasn't anything to notice ("But it's just the same?" you had asked, they merely winked). It continued with his pre-game speeches, which was one opinion you shared with Kenma and Lev ("It _is_ kind of poetic," you admitted).

 

For all that it was worth, were you really that transparent? Or was _he_ really that transparent?

 

"Okay," you went on, when nobody dared to confirm, raising two hands in defeat. "I can tolerate this, so might as well spill whatever it is you guys want to tell."

 

Fukunaga looked over to Lev, Lev to Shibayama, Shibayama to Inuoka, and Inuoka to Yamamoto, who in turn nudged Kenma's shoulder. Like a burden being relieved from their backs, all six of them collectively sighed on cue: "He likes you."

 

Pursing your lips, you dropped your head to stifle a giggle from escaping. It was the only reaction you could muster, not knowing anything else. While you could count in one hand all the confessions you had had so far in middle to high school, there was some ingenuity bearing this one present that you couldn't quite pinpoint. Maybe it was the fact that his friends had said it before he even could, or maybe because you had already expected it, delicacy aside.

 

Or maybe, just maybe (and here you were telling yourself), you reciprocated it too. Whatever that "it" was.

 

"Don't you think he's supposed to be the one to say that?" you said, once recovering from your initial response. You slid your hair back, breathing in and out. You still felt you had to say more, and so you tried, but failed as you were wont. "Right. So. What now?"

 

"Do you like him too?!" Shibayama practically shouted, earning him curious onlookers before he could even be stopped. You had to mouth a _no (it's not what you think it is)_ and plead that the whispers around your circle would cease. The last thing you wanted was for the whole school population to know, given the widespread acknowledgment that the boy's volleyball club had carved a name for themselves this season; that they finally had a manager; and that their captain was specifically a hot topic when it came to the ladies (and to some gentlemen).

 

Cold beads of sweat were beginning to crowd your forehead. It didn't take long before your established habit of muttering nonsense uncontrollably became too overpowering.

 

"Isn't it a little too early to admit that? And come on, I'm the one who's supposed to tell that to him... if ever the circumstances were mutual... which, I don't know... but, I think I do... do I really think I do... what on earth am I saying... what am I going to say... what?!"

 

You stared at them, begging for help, for a tinge of enlightenment. It was no fraudulent experience that you had had crushes prior, but to actually pursue one was beyond your scope of knowledge and potential. They stared back, signs of victorious smiles slowly manifesting on their faces. And you couldn't believe it yourself, never once imagined it, that you were confessing a yet-to-be-completely-understood feeling to six high school boys.

 

"Damn it," you huffed, massaging your temples. "This has gotten a bit awkward isn't it?"

 

"To relieve us of awkwardness, then," Yamamoto crossed his arms and took the role of the savior once again. "Kuroo-san has never had a girlfriend."

 

"I haven't seen him legitimately like someone," Kenma quipped. "Usually it's just pop girl groups or actresses, but rarely actual women. But I'm not all-knowing, since he does his best in hiding his emotions and puts all his focus on studying and playing."

 

"Oh... well..." you murmured, not truly relieved of the awkwardness. Two things deserved to be given recognition at what had been said: one, Kozume Kenma spilled highly confidential information that was making your heart leap out of your chest; and two, Kozume Kenma was already at his talkative peak with that disclosure of highly confidential information.

 

"Kuroo-san likes to act all smooth and suave," Lev supplemented, looking proud of himself for exacting revenge at the captain who sentenced him to merciless penalties. "We just let him be."

 

"You're one to talk," Yamamoto remarked, wheezing. "But yeah, Kuroo-san has this tendency to pretend he's a love guru who has this extensive knowledge..."

 

"...on sex."

 

You blinked, dazed, as everyone nodded at Kenma's comment; like it was normal for them to hear such words from _Kenma_. They most probably observed and witnessed _that_ aspect of Kuroo a lot to reach a thought-provoking generalization.

 

"Or on making out!" Inuoka chimed in. This lunch period had utterly gotten out of hand that you wouldn't be surprised anymore if Fukunaga spoke. You shut your eyes, half exasperated and half amused, that you just wanted to vanish right then and there. Was this all part of one deviated plan, or were they simply relishing the rare opportunity of betraying their captain?

 

"Wow, you guys can talk," you said, wondering what else you could possibly know whenever the third years were momentarily absent. "But what makes you think he's pretending? Don't get me wrong, but in all probability not one of us here has extensive knowledge on those... things."

 

Who were you kidding? You weren't children.

 

"In theory he _may_ have some knowledge," replied Shibayama, leaning his head on his palm. "But in practice, it's questionable."

 

"You can find out for yourself!"

 

"What the hell, Lev?!" You jumped from your seat, standing at a farther distance from the first year. You couldn't picture yourself in a worse discussion, but you could picture yourself looking redder than a Nekoma jersey. While Kuroo Tetsurou was, in fact, attractive as it was his birthright, you didn't see yourself capable of seeing him like that. Not for now.

 

 _Not for now?!_ But after these boys had brought it up, you could no longer unhear anything.

 

"I think we should end this conversation right now!" you stammered, getting down from the bleachers and getting up again to reclaim your bento. You were mumbling incoherent phrases, somewhere along the lines of wishing the first years luck on their English lessons, when the third years came back. You nearly fell as you were stepping down.

 

"Hey," greeted Kuroo, his vest more neatly pressed and his shirt tucked in, compared to their unkempt state awhile ago. His necktie was in its proper place, tightened. You weren't able to register why you had observed these nuances in the first place, because as soon as he directed his attention to you, you looked away. The distant view of the Skytree to your left was suddenly more interesting than the one in front.

 

The boys returned his greeting, surprisingly calm. Inuoka asked how the counseling went, to which Kai relayed some details supported by Yaku. Kenma carried on with his game, Lev fumbled with his notes, and Yamamoto emptied his energy drink. If the dissipating heat on your face wasn't too much of a giveaway, Kuroo would be a hundred percent oblivious to the controversial discussion that had just transpired. On the contrary, you knew yourself that he could be too observant, and so you had to say _something_.

 

"I heard you’re eyeing UTokyo!"

 

It came out louder than anticipated, but Kuroo's interest was piqued anyhow. He grinned. Now you can't help _not_ looking away from him.

 

"Yeah! Their science programs are promising."

 

"Are you still going to play in college?"

 

"That I have to think about more carefully." He buried his hands in his pockets, knitting his brows together. "Are you okay? You look pale."

 

"Yes! Yes of course!" You discretely pinched your other arm from where it hid behind your back. "I mean yes, I'm okay. And no, I'm not pale." _Because just seconds ago I was a walking tomato!_

 

You were desperate to be saved by the bell, but Kuroo still had the time to proceed with a new topic blatantly more important and to not at all talk flustered as you were that moment.

 

"Listen," he spoke and uttered your name. How he always did so testified the way your pulse seemed to skip its rhythm, causing this instinctive disturbance you'd barely notice. "The representative matches are coming up in two weeks, and it'll coincide with my birthday..."

 

"Oh your birthday's coming up!" You remembered that you did ask the team their respective birthdays one lunch period and wrote them down.

 

"Yes, and..." he started rolling back and forth on his heels, "That can only mean we _have_ to win the match, right? Because otherwise, it wouldn't be much of a celebration."

 

"Naturally," you agreed, the sound of the bell reaching the rooftop just as you sensed you were able to relax now. "You guys will win. It'll be one hell of a birthday."

 

Students had begun dispersing back to the building, the team included, but it didn't deter Kuroo (neither did you) from the interaction at hand. It seemed more plausible that you'd rather be late in class than not indulge yourself with his talking, with both your clear efforts in breaking the just-acquaintance-barriers that lie between. Because for one, you did yearn to know him better, and you were getting there bit by bit. It was a pleasant realization.

 

"Not to be overly confident," he said, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, a habit of his. "But I trust you'll celebrate with us?"

 

"It depends on the kind of party."

 

"I presume that's a yes because underage drinking is a tempting offer."

 

"What _is_ underage drinking?"

 

"It's a rule that would apply to you and some of the guys because technically, I'll be _less_ of an underage by the time of my birthday."

 

"Your place, then? I'll bring something. Vodka would be so nice."

 

"Excellent. My parents, who suggested the celebration and who'd surely not be going away for a business trip to leave the house in the poor hands of reckless teenagers, would be _glad_."

 

"Deal."

 

The two of you burst into laughs, filling the now deserted place. Kai said that Kuroo had a hyena-like guffaw he'd unabashedly show to his closest friends, and you had yet to witness it, but for now this encounter would suffice. If you could ride in on his wit and sarcastic plays, then things wouldn't be so bad. How could someone _not_ like him?

 

"All right, I'll bring dessert," you coughed, regaining your composure, and recalled the time. "I have to go. See you in practice, Kuroo-san."

 

You hurried off with a wave, forgetting to glance back (and regretted it a little while later).

 

Sometime soon, you'd learn that he had said to no one, solely to the crisp air of the remaining days of autumn: "I wish you'd drop the honorifics already."


	3. the secret's in the telling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wanna go to my room?"
> 
> "I will _not_ , you perv."
> 
> "I'm not going to do anything!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the manga update pushed me to post this today!  
> honestly this chapter is my fave one (and that's not because i discovered i can write more after having beer).

He'd like to ask the higher powers above if a lone mortal such as he could ever deserve all that had transpired that day. Kuroo Tetsurou would like to know as soon as possible if he were dreaming: right here at the sidewalk in front of Tokyo station, just as he was about to cross, just as he was waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He'd very much love to be awakened by an invisible hand, before he'd be forced to selfishly render this current state of his as real. It wasn't a blissful dream after all, because nothing could get realer than having _her_ here. No one could get realer than her presence tonight, his arm brushing against her arm that wore the blue sleeves of his plaid shirt. How he ended up only in his white undershirt, and his other one clearly worn by her, Kuroo would have to look back to the hours before. How he ended up accompanying her home at a quarter to eleven, Kuroo would have to retrace his steps. He didn't mind. He was too giddy on the inside to mind.

 

The day he turned eighteen, his team secured a spot to nationals. The night he raised a glass to living another year, he had never quite anticipated being taken by her irrevocably. And beside him there she was: a tad taller because of the shoes she insisted on wearing, and her cheeks flushed because of an earlier shenanigan at a house party that involved Hanafuda cards and little to copious amounts of daiginjo. As she blurted out "We can cross now!" he could still smell the faint citrus aroma of the drink. Her figure went ahead, carefully stepping on the white lines of the crossing, and this girl clad in a dress and stockings was too surreal for Kuroo. Her laugh reached his ears as she turned back, beckoning him to hurry, that he realized he didn't move an inch. He didn't have to, he only had to let the few crossers make their way, because the next thing he knew she was pulling him by the hand.

 

The electrifying touch was more than enough for him to recall the hours past.

 

 

(8 hours earlier)

 

"Hey! That ball was out!"

 

She was fuming. That was the fitting word: fuming. Apparently, Daishou Suguru's team would never be capable of niceties on court so long as the captain exhibited the very traits of the school mascot. The snakes were as they had always been, this fact did Kuroo relay to his team prior to the first set. As they neared the end of the second set, Nohebi still didn't run out of tactics to throw: one side to the disgust of Nekoma, and the other side to the delight of ignorant spectators. It was a sight to be frustrated at, clearly, and Nekoma's manager - though oriented by the opposing team's tendencies - had an appalled look on her face at the two-faced play of Nohebi. Kuroo shook his head, already used to how the snakes masqueraded behind their goody-two-shoes facade, and waited for the next switch with Shibayama.

 

"That ball was out!" she repeated, throwing her clipboard at the bench and standing up, ready to approach the nearest referee. The coaches simply resigned with a sigh, and Fukunaga attempted to stop her from the futility of the act. The referees had been convinced, however deceitfully, so there was no point. Yaku glanced at Kuroo, from where the former sat nursing his ankle, and Kuroo took the job of holding her back. He reached her wrist at the sound of the whistle. Nohebi's serve. She yanked her arm from his grip. He felt a burning current from the contact. He had more important matters to think of besides that unprecedented touch.

 

"The referees have already made up their minds," Kuroo explained. She refused to be deterred, gritting her teeth and looking down. He saw her clench her fists. "It's pointless. Trust me, we've had it worse and we don't want a fight to happen again."

 

"When you said Nohebi plays dirty, I didn't know it's _this_ ruthless." She relaxed her hands and walked back to the bench. Kenma managed a quick with Lev ( _Improvement_ , Kuroo noted), but the snakes' libero got the hang of it (Lev had to work on that wobbly cross). The ball returning, a rally ensued: Kai went on covering for Shibayama, as the first-year's anxiety rose at the sudden replacement with Yaku, and the rest connected according to the team's instinct. Daishou wasn't lying when that bastard commented on their infallible defense, but Daishou _was_ lying when he said that was _all_ Nekoma could do. The cats scored a break. The momentum was theirs for the taking. Kuroo went back in. The game was in the 20s.

 

While he positioned himself on the rear guard, he could overhear her complaints. _"They are savages! How can we let this get away?"_ He smirked at that, the menacing one, and vowed to take this set. The third years didn't put their futures on the line just to lose to the savages in question. Whatever vile manner Nohebi slithers into the match, Nekoma would just have to repay the attack the way they did: fairly, cleanly, untainted. It didn't matter anyway. Nekoma would still win, despite the tides turning against them. They'd end this with two straight sets.

 

"Yamamoto nice serve!"

 

Kuroo couldn't have been more right.

 

 

(7 hours earlier)

 

A pull on his jacket also pulled him out of his reverie. He was floating off to cloud nine as he walked out of the changing room, trailing last after the congratulatory speeches of their coaches, when she appeared on his side and he stopped. Her face was kinder this time, humble compared to its fierce ambiance awhile ago. Kuroo saw lines under her eyes, something that wasn't there when they first met. She lifted the corners of her mouth to smile.

 

"Hi," she clasped her hands from behind. "Sorry for lashing out earlier."

 

"Well...."

 

"Well...?"

 

"That was an understandable and expected reaction, so I don't mind."

 

She sighed a laugh. He returned it. Talking to her then made Kuroo realize he had been taking for granted how she looked in the team's tracksuit. If he were used to being sappy, he'd call her pretty, even beautiful. But he was himself and he still couldn't explain why he liked her, so he settled for her aura. She had this personality, a way with words and tugging at someone's heartstrings and sending burning touches that was all too sophisticated to comprehend. He wanted to know, yet he understood that to know was to know her first.

 

"You guys were amazing," she motioned for them to go. Walking a few steps ahead, she turned to face him and so started to walk backwards. "Serves Nohebi right for not going to nationals because they're filthy cheaters. But of course, seeing how modest you can be, you'd say that they also work hard not to lose and it's just a stroke of luck that you guys won and-"

 

"All right all right," he raised a hand. She halted and quirked a brow. "First, you're correct that I'd say those things. Second, it's not just us guys who won. We all did and that includes you."

 

Now he wasn't definitely used to being sappy. Then again, Kenma and Lev always said his pre-game speeches were the sappiest of all things sappy.

 

"What a nice thing to say!" she singsonged, lightly bumping a fist on his shoulder. A second later she was hurrying off, and all that was left of him was yet another ephemeral touch of hers. It wasn't even skin to skin, but Kuroo already had too much of the physical contacts; already had them seeping through cloth and bone to flow into his mind. He wanted to count each and every one of them, keep them sealed in a jar, preserve them in memory. And by god, this infatuation was driving him insane that he was beginning to forget important matters.

 

He called out her name, and it took him aback how natural it sounded in his voice. If only there were no more honorifics, but that could wait. She turned around.

 

"You coming over tonight?"

 

Right. It was his birthday. It was his freaking birthday and he could so easily gloss over that fact in favor of euphoria at their winning and _this_. This progress of burning bridges between him and his stupid hormonal high school crush, who looked both tired and divine a few paces in front of him. Yeah he could overlook that milestone of his now adult life and not care one bit.

 

She grinned and raised a thumbs up. "Of course I will. I'll just follow the address you sen-"

 

"Hey hey hey Kuroo!"

 

Or overlook the fact that he and Bokuto Koutarou had some unfinished business to take care of. _Or_ , forget how loud Bokuto could be in public spaces.

 

"You don't have to shout, idiot." Kuroo stuck out his tongue. Bokuto gave him a smack on the back that wasn't supposed to sting. Akaashi Keiji acknowledged him with a nod.

 

"So I heard you're having a party at your place eh?"

 

"I told you a week ago."

 

"You did?"

 

"And you said you can't come because for once you're going to study for a math test."

 

"I did?"

 

"You're a hopeless child."

 

It took Bokuto a millisecond to squint his eyes before he was guffawing like a drunk uncle in the middle of the hallway. He was ruffling Kuroo's hair (in spite of "Don't make it any messier!" protests) when he caught sight of the other team's manager. He waved furiously. She waved back shyly. Kuroo managed to scramble from Bokuto's headlock.

 

"Oi Kuroo we had a bet!"

 

"It amazes me how you seem to forget my own birthday but not the bet that involves our dear manager."

 

"It's your birthday?!" Bokuto let out a pained cry, burying his face in his palms. He however recovered quickly enough to shoot Kuroo a glare. "But we did have a bet!"

 

The hyperactive owl possessed an instant liking to the manager in question, as the story went, that he offered Nekoma's captain a deal: He'd ask the girl out should Fukurodani win the match. He also spoke to her briefly before the game, introducing himself as a dashing ace ("One of the top five in all Japan!") and as Kuroo's friend. He made her laugh, flattering his ego, and she reciprocated the civility by saying she was glad to meet him. She proceeded to wish him good luck. He ended up hoarding all the luck. It was a painful defeat, Kuroo concluded.

 

But given that it was Kuroo's birthday and Bokuto forgot, there was a reasonable excuse.

 

"I'm forfeiting the bet because you're an awful friend." Kuroo shrugged, crossing his arms with the plastered smirk that was sure to annoy the hell out of Bokuto.

 

"That's not fair!"

 

"It's actually fair, Bokuto-san."

 

"Akaashi!"

 

"I'll see you around, Bokuto." Kuroo chuckled, patting the Fukurodani captain consolingly. He walked on, and seeing that it was permissible to leave an agonizing Bokuto Koutarou, she - though having a sympathetic look at the scene - turned on her heel and treaded on.

 

"What was that bet all about?" she asked him once they were outside Sumida gymnasium. The parked bus burst into life at the sight of the last passengers. Kuroo could hear a furious Yaku prompting them to hurry, but alas the shouts of the libero were just faint background noise.

 

"A weekly takoyaki treat for the whole December."

 

.

 

If you were in a much different circumstance, the lights inside Tokyo station would not have been blinding. Still, none of that mattered. Because as a resident of the great city all your life, this particular station couldn't possibly cease to amaze the beholder. The architectural magnificence of Tokyo station leaped straight out of a Western fairytale; its ceiling - the glass, the bulbs that seemed to blink as you blinked - seemed to be made out of diamonds and they danced through your sight, played with your senses just as everything did at that moment. Rushing people swooped in from all directions, bumping against each other with their instinctive excuse-me's and various apologies as they were to catch the train; its siren becoming more pronounced as it approached. You could hear the calming tune of the signal, could feel the wind pulling you forward and the ground rattle beneath your feet. Each sound and sensation became distinct. You wanted to laugh at _how_ they were made distinct in the first place. Something about having too much to drink, and arguing that it wasn't _that_ much.

 

"Don't step on the yellow line." Somebody tugged at your collar (though you knew that the article of clothing wasn't really yours) and pulled you beside him. Looking up, your hazy sight procured unruly details of jet black hair and a tall (very tall) figure with slit and serious eyes. You reached for his hair, parting the fringe that covered half his face, and ducked to get a better view of this specimen under analysis. He sighed in equal parts amusement and exasperation. You chuckled. He gently put down your hand. "You don't have to tell me how untamed it is."

 

"You remind me of a rooster."

 

"Can't blame you. Roosters are good-looking."

 

"And the chickens are not? Please don't insult the chickens, Kuroo-san."

 

You finished off the argument with a tut, stepping inside the train car. The crowd piled in, though not as suffocating as it would be on rush hours and on midnight. You occupied the space facing the door, just across the seats reserved for the elderly, and Kuroo took the suspended handles with ease. You thought of it unfair how some people were simply endowed with the gifts of height; because should you be either short or tall (inclusive of the type of shoes worn), these gifted people would still be way ahead of you. Your six-footer companion could testify to that.

 

"You've been looking at me too much now," he pointed out, smirking, with his gaze directed at the windows. You were all ready to retort his self-indulgent remark when the doors slid shut and the car moved forward. Your balance-deprived self had you crashing headfirst towards him, nose buried in the soapy scent of his shirt. Realizing that only one layer of cloth separated you from the rumble in his chest that implied a restraint of laughter at your happy accident, you pushed him back. He held on to the handle, though. Your cheeks - no, your whole body - were ablaze than they ever were before.

 

"As far as I know, you like it," you stammered, trying to take one of the handles. What little decency that remained, however shameless the day had been, overruled the fact that you may have looked stupid doing so. He merely grinned. It was annoying, yet deep down you badly wanted to wipe off that cheeky smile on his lips with your own. The latter part of that sentence was your drunk self talking - this you promised to forget the morning after.

 

But in bittersweet reality you would remember every single detail of that day, that night. You'd remember how you let go of the handle as the train swerved to the right, two minutes before its arrival at your station. You'd remember holding onto him (and the surprised look he gave away): clutching his shirt and resting your head against his soap-scented shoulder; just relishing the closeness, the physicality of it all, as you hummed and closed your eyes. Because, frankly, it was more comfortable than straining for that stupid handle with its stupid attached advertisement. But, also frankly, a bit uncomfortable because here you were sending him touches that understood no quota, no boundary. It was your drunk self acting - this you swore to yourself as a viable excuse.

 

That Saturday's chain of events was the craziest you had by far.

 

 

(6 hours earlier)

 

"I'm home!"

 

You announced, out of breath, once the door to your apartment unit clicked shut. Hurriedly, you removed your sneakers - not bothering to even unlace them - and dumped them to the side. You waited for a reply from the kitchen, but realizing there was none, you headed for your room and began the ceremonious task of getting ready for a party within the short amount of time. It wasn't a party, per se, but more of a social gathering (rather intimate, as Kai said, once the boys took on their separate routes with you on your bike) in honor of the captain's birthday and the team's victory. Funny how fate could operate sometimes: granting Nekoma unending bliss that weekend.

 

It took you five minutes to shower and another five to choose a favorite dress. You grabbed the white stockings tucked in the corner of your drawer, laboring at their tight fit, and clasped on the reserved-for-special-occasions shoes a godmother once gave you. It was a simple outfit, casual at best, and one-inch heels were the most practical option: you neither looked like you were trying to compensate for lack of height in contrast to your friends, nor mentally challenged to walk around wearing those in Tokyo.

 

The door opened, permitting your mother inside, and you got out to greet her. You both proceeded to the kitchen: her laying the groceries on the table, and you placing the cupcakes in the box - careful not to ruin the chocolate and vanilla icing. You owed your being tired to the all-nighter of baking these sweets good for at least fifteen people, the amateur baker you were. Sliding the box in a sturdy paper bag, you peered at the gracefully lined bottles of sake in the cupboard above the sink.

 

"Can I bring one?" you asked your mother. She looked at you knowingly, a soft smile on her face. From table sake to the premium ones, it was rare that a bottle was brought out - save for wedding gifts and too-significant achievements in the family. You were only half joking when you told Kuroo you'd bring a drink.

 

"Take the daiginjo."

 

"Seriously?"

 

Wide-eyed, you were still hesitant to get the most premium bottle. You guessed how it must have cost a fortune for a family friend to give away, and how it must have been too important to pop open in the house. It was beyond your understanding that your mother would alone let you take it to a friend's birthday, without her even personally knowing that friend or his family.

 

"Mom, are you sick?" You walked to her side and felt her forehead. She laughed, shooing you away. She herself took the bottle out, handing it to you.

 

"They'll be impressed," she reasoned, leaning at the table top. "If this Kuroo family won't think you suitable to be a daughter-in-law at the end of the night, I'd be pissed."

 

"What the hell, mom?!"

 

"Just saying," she patted your hair and headed for the living room, not without muttering, "I know what a person in love looks like, dear."

 

"Ma, I'm not in love!" Your grip on the bottle tightened. You _weren't_ , were you?

 

"Keep telling yourself that!"

 

Sighing, you searched for a wine bottle bag and wrapped the sake in crepe paper before putting it in. The gifts on the table, you snatched your satchel from the coat hanger and quickly stashed your belongings; the realization hitting you that you would carry all these on your own to Chiyoda. With one last look on the mirror to fix your hair and put on some lip gloss, you made your way out the door; passing by your mother clearly engrossed at her favorite game show.

 

"Don't wait up!" you called out, twisting the knob as you balanced the bags on your arms.

 

"And don't stay out too late!" her voice rung from the living room. "Be careful, all right?"

 

"Of course." You paused at the threshold. The sun was beginning to set behind the skyscrapers from afar. You glanced back in the house. "And mom?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Like hell I'm in love."

 

You pulled the door close, shaking your head, but smiled all the same. You descended the building's staircase and greeted the bustling hour of the metropolis, wondering what it meant (and if there were any symptoms to be aware of) to be in love.

 

 

(5 hours earlier)

 

"Oh my god, he lives here?"

 

The house was an anachronistic edifice in the queue of concrete and overwashed tones. It was a paradox laid bare - both old and new - somewhere at the heart of Greater Tokyo, the political and cultural capital, some alleyways and sidesteps northwest from the station. Your feet throbbed, sore from the longer-than-expected walk (to think that Yaku said it would only take seven minutes), yet you paid no notice; instead awestruck by the sight, the name plate of the family affixed on the bricked foundation of the iron gates.

 

You hesitated to press the doorbell, though the lights within the enclosure were tempting, the rounded roof tiles boasting its ornate grace. The house didn't belong in the row, perhaps the whole residential area, and how it stood out - two storeys of grandeur - was reminiscent of a Ghibli scene. It whispered to be discovered, entered and applauded its welcoming essence, because it stands high and mighty in the name of tradition; while modernity tried to consume it. It was beautiful, as a simpleton would describe it, and its owners could be surmised to have been pleasant caretakers for this miniature metropolitan palace to exist.

 

You pushed the button nonetheless. When the gate creaked open, your dazed reaction just magnified even more: not because you saw the host of the hour (who also appeared dazed at his awaited guest), but because of the expanse of greenery and aesthetic bearings of the garden. An arched wooden bridge hung from a small pond circled by polished rocks, the flowing water sending tranquil thoughts to the visitor. On both sides of the tiny bridge were kept grass, shrubbery, bonsai, and potted seasonal flowers. In front was the opened door atop two steps: it bore Western influence in its carvings, complementing the colorful glass designs from its left and right. The geometrical shapes and colors of the glass vaguely depicted the four seasons.

 

"Hello to you too," said Kuroo from behind. When you faced him, he had a smug look that spoke on his behalf: he was having fun with your first impression towards his home. You couldn't deny anyhow, so he could gladly take the satisfaction.

 

"It's a lovely place," and the statement was a stab at flattery. You stepped to cross the bridge, but halted at your tracks when a ball of black fluff came running - a bell tinkling from where it dangled around its neck - and hopping to your direction.

 

"You have a dog?!"

 

"She's more of a daughter, really." He crouched low in greeting the fluffy ray of sunshine, who in turn licked his hand. You just stood, slumped, with a mouth hanging open at not even having the slightest idea that Kuroo Tetsurou was actually a dog person. He didn't look like it. To hell with it, he didn't even look like he was the kind of person to be living in such a majestic house. To hell with it too, he didn't even look like he was the kind of person who didn't go around toying a string of girlfriends and their feelings.

 

Biting your lip to hide a smile, you watched as he rubbed the back of the dog's ear. "Mei-chan, who told you that you can go outside?" he cooed, and it was all multitudes of endearing. Mei-chan, who surpassed the lovable character and friend of Totoro from whom she was named after, placed her paws on Kuroo's knees, eager to please and to just be adored.

 

"Come here, I want you to meet a friend." She bounced to his arms and the introductions began. His eyes were chinkier than his usual grins, and you wouldn't mind seeing them often, wouldn't mind seeing Mei-chan, wouldn't mind knowing him more. "She's still six months old, a crossbreed of a shih tzu and a poodle. Doesn't bark much, but she's too friendly even to strangers. Isn't she adorable?"

 

He was pouting. You giggled and booped Mei-chan's nose. "She's the epitome of cute."

 

Kuroo led the way to the house, explaining here and there how his mom was obsessed in renovating the once purely traditional structure. The pond, the garden, and the miniature waterfall at the back ("You also have a mini waterfall?! What's next, an onsen resort?") were built specifically for Kuroo's grandfather, who, by doctor's prescriptions, must be exposed to calming sceneries; but because the old man was in Tokyo all his life, couldn't be moved to the countryside ("Grandpa used to work in the local library. He loves it too much to leave."). The second floor was added, providing room for Kuroo's parents and for his father's study.

 

As you entered the genkan, two shelves facing each other led to the living room: an array of books ("Mostly encyclopedias, classic literature, humanities and the sciences.") decked the beige walls. Passing them, your eyes trailing along the titles on the spines, shoji screens obscured two rooms ("One for me and for grandpa."). Waxed vertical wood pervaded the living room floor, with a couch in the middle, and on one side was the television set between cabinets of picture frames ("This one's taken during a summer trip to Hokkaido." "This one's our middle school volleyball team. Look! Pre-dyed Kenma!"). The staircase was posited to the other side, along with the door to the bathroom. Beyond the living room were fusuma panels portraying the ancient story of the country's creation, and hiding as well raucous laughter against the blare of 60s music. One panel slid open, and Haiba Lev came out of the dining room.

 

"You're here!" the first year exclaimed, gripping you in a tight and gigantic hug. "Now we're all complete!" He instantly peeped inside the bag of deserts. "Let me get that for you!"

 

"Thanks, Lev." You chirped, peaking inside the fusuma panel to see all the boys huddled on the tatami floor around the short table. Another row of translucent shoji screens opened to the engawa and the backyard, where vines crept on the bricked wall; while the rush of the infamous mini waterfall permeated throughout. "Got lost on the way because your _captain_ here messaged unclear directions."

 

Kuroo rolled his eyes, nudging an elbow against yours. "I didn't know you preferred relative locations and landmarks, okay?" Struck by protective instinct, he dodged Lev's outstretched arms in pursuit of Mei-chan. "Get your grubby hands off her!"

 

"I wanna play with Mei-chan!"

 

"Don't you have your cats to play with?"

 

"Can't I be a cat person _and_ a dog person?"

 

"Fine." Yielding with a huff, Kuroo laid her down and both she and Lev scurried off. Hands free, his attention darted to the elongated paper bag left in your possession. "You didn't...?"

 

"I did," you nodded, and it was your turn to look smug. "The best sake we have."

 

"Right - wow - you _do_ keep your word, then - so -"

 

"At least it's not vodka?"

 

"Right. _Right_." Pressing his palms to the plaid blue shirt he wore, as though by doing so he was cleared from being charged guilty, Kuroo took the bag. "Let's get you inside. They can't wait to meet y-"

 

"Tetsu-kun, please take the pie out the oven!"

 

The panel wholly slammed open, showing a fair woman in her forties wearing black square-rimmed glasses to match her raven hair tied neatly in a low bun. She was of medium stature, and her eyes that crinkled with how her crow's feet bent suggested a prompt matriarch in a floral-patterned apron. Those prompt eyes sparkled at the guest's presence. You bowed deeply.

 

"Thank you for having me!"

 

"Oh, so she's the one!" Warmth emanated from her voice. Before you could even get a proper look at the mother of the house, she had taken your hands and was squeezing them excitedly. "Tetsu-kun has told us lots about you, love. It's great to finally meet you and have you here!"

 

Thrusting yourself upright, you beamed at her and watched two more adults emerge from the dining room. Two men, one taller and the other hunched shorter, had the same warm smiles. The taller man, also in his forties, sported a lighter shade of black hair; while the other, much older and wiser, had no other shade but gray and white. Kuroo - Tetsurou - introduced you to his father and his grandfather, who lively encouraged you to join supper. Following the two men came the livelier greetings of the whole team, their jests challenging the music in the background, with Kenma in tow already busy with a saucer of apple pie.

 

"So, Tetsu-kun," you whispered, nudging his side with a wink. "What have you been saying to your parents about me behind my back?"

 

.

 

His soles settled on the platform, and thunder clapped from above. She yawned, a hand covering her mouth, and leaned onto him; while he, the exact second lightning struck the clouds from some distant leagues into the metropolis, too was struck by the imaginary prickling (a shudder, a gasp) of her hair - her very presence - rubbing on his skin as though she could never belong elsewhere. It was as though she belonged there, walking with him from Ueno station, with her soft mumbling of directions towards her home. The concrete roads were deserted at eleven o'clock. A nearby convenience store light flickered lazily.

 

"We don't live far from the station," she had yawned again, a hiccup making her body bounce a tad. He eased onto her hold, a thought corrupting his mind that what if she wouldn't remember come morning after; and what if he'd concede that it would be for the better, her forgetting. But the other thought unblemished won him over: he hoped she'd not forget at all. Drunk her, or sober her, he hoped. He remained silent, anticipating her voice.

 

"A faint clap of thunder," and a tighter clutch, a round of invisible flames keeping him warm. "Clouded skies... Perhaps rain comes... If so, will you stay here with me?"

 

It was a familiar verse, a household tanka that he recalled was often spoken by his departed grandmother, and one he knew by heart. _Narukami no sukoshi toyomite, furazu to mo, warewa tomaramu, imoshi todomeba._

 

"A faint clap of thunder," he replied, fluttering his lids close as if to recall more strongly this reminder of his childhood; when he had lesser qualms in bittersweet life. "Even if rain comes not, I will stay here together with you."

 

She tilted her chin up and cocked a brow. "Well-read. Impressive."

 

"The books in the house are not just for display, you know."

 

"But I didn't know that specific tanka struck your fancy."

 

He shrugged. "I'm secretly a romantic."

 

And he wasn't lying. He had always been an honest man. She scoffed at that, pulling him to the left street and what inner agony he had to bear, let him go. She trodded to an ashen building, beckoning him to hurry. Thunder rumbled once more. Kuroo counted five seconds before he saw a flash of lightning in the sky from where they stood, five feet apart. She was clasping and unclasping her fingers; his threaded through his hair and rested on his nape.

 

"Thank you for taking me home." She wasn't looking at him, but on a pebble on the ground. "I had a wonderful time tonight. Your family is awesome, it was fun to know you all."

 

He was certain his insides had turned to mush, leaving him in utter powerlessness with which he must respond in equal gratitude. "They really liked you, I think even without the daiginjo in the picture they'd still do."

 

"You try so hard to be funny."

 

"But I succeed most of the time." After a quick exchange of breathless laughter he cleared his throat. "Seriously though. Thank you for visiting."

 

There weren't any stars, but the cheesy and romantically-inflicted side of his personality demanded that he admit her smile was enough to make up for the absent twinkling orbs of a billion suns in space. He inwardly did.

 

"Happy birthday," and she leaned forward, and he waited, and she tiptoed. In the haziest of hazy dreamlike events, five feet apart turned into soft lips grazing his cheek. In the literal blink of an eye it was all over, only the spark stayed as every nerve in his body was aflame. He didn't want to wake up, just wanted to replay everything, but the same lips were now hovering his; the scent of citrus overpowering, even intoxicating. He waited, and perhaps she did too, yet of course he knew better; of course she wasn't herself. How sweet she tasted could come much, much later to the point of driving him mad.

 

"Oh no," she breathed, but not stepping back, still close enough. "I just did something crazy, didn't I?"

 

"I happen to like crazy." His thumb was tracing circles on the back of her hand; unconsciously or not, he was too lightheaded to comprehend this wanting of a last touch. As quickly as it occurred, or as slowly like time ticking underwater, he was the one to step a foot back. Taking this cue, she retreated, but not without a gleam in her expression as though to say maybe next time they could. Maybe next time they could surrender to the desire.

 

"See you on Monday," she waved. He nodded his goodbye. Before her ascent to the stairwell she turned around, the dim bulb within the building slightly obscuring her stature. "I won't really forget all this, to be honest. I'm not that kind of drunk."

 

"But don't forget a glass of water before you go to bed."

 

"Yeah yeah good night, rooster."

  
"Chicken."

 

"Whatever."

 

He didn't retrace his steps back to the station until she reached the second floor.

 

 

(4 hours earlier)

 

"He sleeps like a baby with two pillows!"

 

Post-dinner convos were solely created for the purpose of humiliation. While dinner was pleasant to cater conversations raging from college plans and volleyball aspirations, what followed suit - after three large bowls of tempura seemed to magically disappear from the table - was an amalgam of his mother's detailed stories of his childhood. As Kuroo choked on his serving of apple pie at every laughter that ensued, his team mates (mostly the third years) were even more enthusiastic for more of the excruciating bits of his pre-pubescent life. It ranged from the horrific misfortune of cutting his hair himself in middle school, and suffering the agony because he could never tame the wilderness atop his head, to the boxes and boxes of confession letters he tucked away at the bottom of his closet. The last one aroused everybody's curiosity at an astounding level.

 

"Have you ever read them?" she asked, and all eyes were on him. She had been sitting amongst the first years, where his mother could be close, and Yamamoto had already whispered to him one bathroom break that he had been staring countless times as though the look could undress her. Kuroo flicked the back of his head.

 

"I tried reading one," he said after a sip of the fresh orange juice his grandfather had prepared. He glanced at his parents who sat on opposite sides, both urging him to continue with vigorous nods as if they did not know the anecdote better than he did. His groan blended with a sigh. "Can't remember her name for the life of me but, she did explain vividly that I was a frequent visitor of her - I quote - 'hot, sweaty, and passionate' nights, and that I should also admit that I wanted her 'desperately' _and_ that she knew secret places in school where we could do... the do."

 

He didn't doubt that the commencing laughter and bellowing noise could be heard in the whole district, coupled with fists slammed on the table that overpowered Kuroo's misery. The entertainment hadn't died down come dessert time, and even the most silent of his team mates resorted to a snigger here and there. What tremendous fun it would be to have friends who wouldn't let him live down this moment laid bare.

 

"Bring out the bottle! Bring out the bottle!" his grandfather announced, bursting with more energy and youth than the old man's usual self. The drink in question was procured from the kitchen, amid cheers and vows that the underage drinking would only remain in the house and nowhere else. Rules were set, there would be one toast dedicated to the birthday boy, and everybody was free to drink according to their hearts' content; so long as responsibly, they could take themselves home at the end of the night. If there were two people known to be notorious drinkers in the household, when times call for it, it would be Kuroo's mother and his grandpa. But these two had a remarkable tolerance in contrast to his father and, well, Kuroo was nowhere near as a drinker as they were. He had let himself be satisfied with just knowing the properties of sake, the different types of aroma and how each grain of rice was polished off at varying degrees; how water was a vital element in the process, and how it could never be inferior to wine. To him, one cup of the liquid through his system, sake was definitely better.

 

"My, my, I haven't had a special drink like this one in ages!" grandpa commented, voice raspy but brimming with excitement. Porcelain cups were set for each, and Kuroo did the honors of uncapping the bottle: from the neck, the bottom was bigger and deeper than he expected. The old man let out a nostalgic sigh at the aroma, as Kuroo poured him the first cup, while the youngsters at the table eyed the clear liquid in anticipation. From there, the person seated to the left poured for the one seated on the right and so on; until all had a cup in their hand, ready for the toast.

 

His mother cleared her throat, the dining room going quiet in a beat. "I vote that we let the one who graciously brought the sake do the toast." Murmurs of agreement were expressed, despite the alarmed look of the other only woman in the room. Kuroo caught himself staring again; caught himself in a daze at how a color of a dress could make it seem as though the wearer's skin was glowing. She blushed at the sudden turn of attention, swallowing hard, and he didn't fail to notice the movement of it from her neck to her collarbone and down to her chest. Kuroo pinched his arm before his thoughts be any more led to their unwanted perverted state.

 

"Okay then," she conceded with a warm smile. "I hope my short speech would be tolerable." She glanced around, raised her cup, and locked her eyes on his direction. The rest mirrored the gesture. "To Kuroo Tetsurou: loyal captain, hardworking student, and loving son. May you kick ass in Tokyo University and in the nationals, because we know you can do no less. Also, may you eventually be brave enough to accept confession letters wholeheartedly and ask a girl - or a boy - out."

 

Mei-chan barked, in mutual agreement, and the room was decked in cheers. Cups clinked and the first round of drinks was downed. There came a second, but most insisted that two times was good enough an experience for the meantime. The daiginjo was stronger than what they pictured it to be anyway, save for the adults' (but excluding Kuroo, in spite his legality) imagination. But _she_ was surprisingly having a third round, already in familiar spirits with his grandfather and parents, who began - for a pleasant change - talking about everyday life in Chiyoda.

 

"Nothing has changed, really," his mother spoke in between cups. "They still disappear off to Akiba every Thursday because this videogame is out, that videogame is out for a limited time only, and because Tetsurou is a hoarder of coupons. Right, Kenma-kun?"

 

"One time in his first year, I think Morisuke-kun insisted they try it out, they caused a commotion in the newly-opened maid cafe," his father supplemented next, twirling his drink and laughing heartily. "There were these rude young men towards the waitresses. To cut the long story short, Tetsurou arrived home with a bleeding nose."

 

"Ah, that chivalry. He got it from me," grandpa chuckled. Another set of life stories later, the bottle almost empty, the old man - as he was bound to when induced with sake - declared that he needed a formidable opponent: he had not played an exciting battle of koi-koi for so long. Kuroo got up to help in clearing the table, deciding to himself that it would indeed be a heated battle, when he was bewildered to see _her_ raising a hand. He was then instructed to get the deck of cards from his grandfather's quarters, and the other boys not in kitchen duty to prepare the living room.

 

Inuoka was the one to ask in a hushed tone. "How _is_ koi-koi played, Kuroo-san?"

 

"Believe me. I haven't understood that game since I was a kid."

 

 

(3 hours earlier)

 

"Koi-koi!"

 

Eleven rounds and uproarious banters later, he still couldn't keep up with the fast-paced card swapping despite careful observation and handling of the manual. He never did in the first place, and Kuroo was sure he never would at all for the rest of his life. The others were as dumbfounded as he was, except for Kenma who had always been the boy genius with every kind of game on earth. Kenma too grew tired of explaining the rules through the years of Kuroo demanding that somebody help him understand. The grandfather most of all loved taunting the grandson with secrets of a game master. Kuroo simply gave up, telling everyone that volleyball rules and chemistry were a lot less sophisticated.

 

At the moment, he contented himself into being entertained. He hadn't seen his grandfather have that much fun since the old man's bet in baseball bagged the championship title. That was roughly two years ago.

 

"This is a fair warning, young lady. Your last chance to back out, collect your points, and call it even. If we push through with the twelfth round, I'll be merciless."

 

"We agreed on twelve rounds, sir. I'm not one to settle for less."

 

Kuroo smirked at her persistence. Over time, he had memorized the cards, thinking that he could still do something to compensate for his lack of ability in knowing how to play them. His one weakness aside, he carried the instinctive pride of knowing instead their history, the twelve suits representing the twelve seasons, each season with a distinct flower, and each card's nature. All forty-eight of them he knew, like a child counting numbers. The iris of May, June's peony, the bush clovers and the silver grass respectively, he could recite in his mind without fail. September's chrysanthemum and October's maple leaves (autumn, the hues of autumn), he could replace them for a calendar. His birth month's willow, a tree of rain, he could retain in thought as though he was born with it.

 

An exhausted pile at the table's center later, the young lady won.

 

"He let you win," Kuroo shrugged when he got her alone, shoulders touching but not giving in. She stuck her tongue out. "I've seen every game there is for the past eighteen years. Grandpa always, _always_ , won. Undefeated."

 

"Now, now, don't be such a buzzkill."

 

"But I guess you can enjoy the spotlight for a while, princess."

 

"You're just bitter 'cause you can't play," she hummed, draping her legs on the edge of the engawa, her tune harmonizing with the artificial brook in the garden. Kuroo responded with a chuckle and lied down, head parallel to her thigh. His vision caught glimpses of the roof's underside, the crescent moon, but mostly he relished on the different kind of view of her face: lashes more pronounced, especially when she would look down with a grimace or a cocky smile.

 

From there he could hear the first years' attempts at koi-koi. He frowned. "Did you know that Hanafuda cards are also called nose cards? Gambling was prohibited before, so when a yakuza member would go to a store he'd touch his nose and the seller would know exactly what he wanted."

 

"Tell me more."

 

"Before the modern calendar we used the old one."

 

"Obviously."

 

"Did you know that in the traditional calendar, with the old names and symbols for each month, one week lasts for ten days?"

 

"Does that mean there were three days for the weekend?"

 

"Nah. We didn't have a concept for weekends back then."

 

"That sucks."

 

So he went on, taking advantage of his know-it-all nature at her request, and spoke of the traditional names of the twelve months and their corresponding purposes. December was when the priests ran, January was filled with affection, and in February clothes were changed to thicker ones in response to winter.

 

"And October..."

 

"Oh I already know that bit about October."

 

"The month of gods?"

 

" _Or_ the month without gods."

 

She no longer was listening when Kuroo began mentioning the time periods of centuries ago, to which he just spoke louder and faster - a far more cruel history teacher than hers, she said. He laughed at that: "Are you smart-shaming me?" She stuck her tongue out again: "Maybe. I never knew you are such a nerd."

 

He stood up, brushing his jeans. "Wanna go to my room?"

 

The look on her face was nothing short but scandalized. "I will _not_ , you perv."

 

"I'm not going to do anything!"

 

"What are you gonna show me then?" she crossed her arms, reconsidering with a smirk that mirrored his. As the night drawled on, it was getting harder and harder to restrain himself from wanting to be near this stupid lovesick infatuation in the guise of her. He was going insane, the symptoms of a madman tormenting him.

 

Kuroo leaned on the post. "You can't call me a nerd when you haven't seen my room."

 

.

 

You shut the door slowly with a creak, sliding down the bedroom floor and kicking off your shoes. The euphoria subsiding, all that was left was the atrocity you had to bear on your soles. They throbbed, the ache making you wince, yet the throbbing within your ribcage was louder. You groaned, both for the pain and the realization of stupidity that drove your actions for the night. You closed your eyes, hard, in hopes of letting the experience ebb away, because it was just so stupid and careless and embarrassing; but rendered it futile when the lightning shed a temporary glow in the unlit room and jolted you back to consciousness. You wouldn't forgive yourself for it. You already knew your sober self would, by all means, kick you in the shin by morning.

 

"What if I quit from the team?" you wondered aloud, and the only reply you got was the faint thunder. Unwarranted thoughts came running by, each with a specific course of action on how to avoid the volleyball captain on Monday (and for another stretch of days), but each of them also greeted a dead-end. He was a third year, a busy one at that for crying out loud, and it wouldn't do anyone good if someone in the likes of you disrupted the balance of things just because you opted to pursue him. _Which_ , you added in a lie, you _wouldn't_ do.

 

But god, how much you wanted to. The proof was there before your senses, no matter how hard you lied, because damn it all you almost kissed the guy and you kept insisting on being close to him and it was blatantly flirting that you felt corrupted already and.... _Oh man, he wasn't reciprocating them, was he?_

 

He was. You weren't that disillusioned. "End me."

 

Massaging your temples, you caught an unfamiliar scent: soapy, masculine, kind of addicting. You reached for your collar, not remembering you wore a second layer, and arrived at a new realization that Kuroo Tetsurou would have to go back home with only a plain undershirt on in this weather.

 

"But at least he smells nice." You unlatched yourself from the oversized sleeves, and basking under the fact that you were alone, sniffed the cotton fabric. Face hidden by the cloth, you breathed what you could breathe in, taking in everything there was; every remnant of the dizzying and gratifying thought that was him.

 

You sighed, a moan escaping your mouth, and the strange sound itself was enough to sober you up and discard the shirt away like it carried a disease. The creep you didn't know you had in you just had to end tonight. No questions asked.

 

 _I'm too deep into this_. You adjusted your vision back to the dark room, making out shadows and silhouettes of furniture. _Whatever this is_. The place was tidy, every corner dusted, all things were at their proper position. There would be clutter at the desk, yet they only made a minimal impression on the whole. But in rewinding to the past hours, the four walls of your room could be considered emptier and bland compared to _his_ room; _his_ world that he had no reluctance in showing to anyone who didn't mind. It was too late to exit when he was the one to welcome you in.

 

 

(2 hours earlier)

 

"You... you have a chemistry set."

 

He grinned sheepishly, like the child he was. The tubes and flasks were empty, the tools neatly tucked in box compartments, and the rack stood spotless beside the lampdesk. Facing the desk was a whiteboard scribbled to the edges, displaying an intimidating array of equations, formulas, and diagrams no sane mortal could look at and not feel a headache coming on. Kuroo's room was clinically white, too clean, too organized, with a bed that screamed its lodger neatly folded the sheets every single day as accurately and as precisely as he could because he knew no other way. A shelf faced the curtained window, where trophies and more framed photos and books rested. The only items seemingly out of place was his red tracksuit hanging on a hook on one side and the yellow and blue of a volleyball near the trash bin.

 

"It's like walking into a different dimension," you said. He picked up the volleyball and twirled it on his finger. Outside, the other guests of the house began bidding their farewells (mostly the first years who promptly abided curfew rules of parents). The clatter of dishes, where Kenma helped with the washing, could be heard from the kitchen. The television in the living room sent its usual buzz of the late night news.

 

"So how much of a nerd am I now?"

 

"At a colossal level. You should be proud."

 

The third years knocked on the opened panel, Lev in tow, who was muttering his annoyance at having been dragged around by Yaku after he had _firmly_ insisted he still wanted to try koi-koi.

 

"I said we're going," Yaku grunted through gritted teeth, creases on his head forming.

 

"We'll see you guys on Monday." Kai was the one to calmly speak. Yamamoto appeared from behind the group, cheering on his goodbye and happy birthday greeting, induced by what little amount of alcohol he had taken. It was the best night of his life, he said ("We should do this more often!"), the greatest one ever.

 

"We're going to wreck the nationals!" he further shouted, slinging his arms around the two third years. At Yaku's insistence, the group headed for home. You yourself thought with an unsettling nervousness how you would traverse the way back without getting lost; more importantly, how you would walk to the station when you could barely keep your balance. How many cups did you drink again?

 

Just when you were contemplating the directions to the station, Kuroo's mother passed by with her usual crinkled smile. "Tetsu-kun, be a gentleman and take her home."

 

"But-" you found yourself protesting, although the head of the house simply waved it off. Surely, it was too much a hospitality to ask?

 

"It's all right, love. I have Kenma to help around," she winked and turned to her son, who was as wide-eyed as you were. Her tone rapidly changed from soothing to demanding. "If you can't catch the last train back to Chiyoda, take the bus. You still got money from what I gave you today?"

 

Kuroo nodded. She beamed and stepped away. "Good."

 

When you faced him, his bleary shrug said it all. Orders were orders. You went out of the room, him following close behind and sliding the shoji panel shut. After paying your respects to the elders and retrieving your bag, Kuroo led you to the genkan. His grandfather, the cheery man he was and a contagion of happiness, extracted a promise from you that you would visit again sometime soon. He needed his winning title back. Kenma briefly got out of the kitchen and waved (as Mei-chan jumped around him). Kuroo then took the spare house keys, calling out that he'd be back.

 

"Save me some pie!" He held the door open. You stepped out and sneezed at the biting chill. "Cold?"

 

"Not really."

 

"Here." He removed his outer shirt, handing it to you. "The orders were, strictly speaking, to be a gentleman."

 

You shook your head, but still took it. "Will they save you some pie?"

 

"They won't."

 

 

(1 hour earlier)

 

"We can't go to the Imperial Palace grounds."

 

"But why?!"

 

"It's closed."

 

"But why!?"

 

"It's ten in the evening, drunk lady."

 

You sat on a bus stop bench, in the middle of a tantrum that caused your companion into running after a barefooted girl in a dress as the city lights blared alive. Catching his breath, Kuroo handed back your shoes. His explanation seemed logical, not hazy and questionable like yours. You snatched the heels with a grunt and a pointed glare, because these things were certainly created by a spawn of the devil who only inflicted pain upon the wearer. When you looked back at Kuroo, he was wheezing.

 

"What's so funny, giant?"

 

"You."

 

"I'm already pissed I can't high-five the emperor but you still got the nerve to mock me, you heartless bastard."

 

"I'm sure the emperor's as disappointed as you are that he can't see you tonight."

 

You clasped your shoes and stood up, holding on to the metal posts. The sidewalk wasn't littered with people compared to that afternoon, but the hyperactive lights and signage of the buildings were too overwhelming that your sight soon became clouded. What came next was the sensation that you could do anything and everything, your voice louder, your words uninhibited. Kuroo described this phenomenon as the side effect of a powerful volume of ethanol consumed in porcelain cups you didn't bother to keep track. You pushed him to the highway when he said that. You pulled him back, nonetheless.

 

"Where the fuck is the station?" you blurted, squinting at a stoplight.

 

"Another side effect: cussing," he observed, diverting you by the shoulder to a street you didn't notice was there. "Your alcohol tolerance is mindblowing."

 

"Shut the fuck up."

 

"Okay, I think we have had enough fucks to give."

 

The distractions he provided were in the form of letting you retell your first meeting with Lev's and Yamamoto's sisters, reminding you that you _had_ met them and knew well their names. As he dodged you from bumping into pedestrians and trees, you rambled on animatedly, much to his amusement.

 

"They invited me shopping. Did I say yes or no?" You tripped over a crossing, strong arms steadying you. "Hey, do you like Alisa-san?"

 

"I think so?"

 

"Well I like her a lot. She's hot."

 

He laughed - that infamous laugh you had never heard before and you felt like rejoicing because finally, _finally_ , that was how it sounded like and it was just too funny and scary at the same time. Kuroo Tetsurou was like a menacing hyena cornering his prey, or a human possessed by a vile demon, but you found it oddly endearing that you laughed along. He swerved you to the right of the sidewalk, where people started accumulating on their way to the station.

 

"Oi, Kuroo-san."

 

"Still with the honorifics? What happened to Tetsu-kun?"

 

"I couldn't call you Kuroo-san with both your parents in there, idiot." You pouted at him, squeezing his cheek. He rolled his eyes. "I heard you had a summer of love with one of the Karasuno boys."

 

"What the-"

 

"A little birdie told me. Well, not so little birdie."

 

"Lev."

 

"So is this middle blocker of yours really pretty? Didn't know you're weak for the glasses type."

 

"Stop talking or I'll kiss you."

 

"Aggressive, huh?"

 

You tousled his hair and winked. He suddenly seemed lost for words.

 

.

 

Kuroo ended up taking the bus: not because he missed the last train, but because he needed more time to think, and only buses could let him do that. That reason established, it had begun raining as well, so he couldn't walk farther than the stop that sheltered him for a while. When he came back at their doorstep five minutes to midnight, his grandfather was already dozing off on the couch. He switched off the television and peeped into the empty dining room. In the kitchen, clean dishes were stacked on the sink. He busied himself packing them in the cupboard - it would be difficult to sleep, anyway.

 

Going to his room, he found Kenma lying on a futon beside his bed, game console in hand. Kenma pressed the pause button and looked him over. "Tell me about it."

 

"The what?" Kuroo yawned, sprawling on the bed and burying his head between pillows. "Didn't know you're sleeping in."

 

"We agreed on it yesterday." That, Kuroo completely forgot. "So how was it."

 

"Why do you want to know?"

 

"Because you won't shut up about it so might as well tell me now."

 

"I took her home."

 

"And?"

 

"Ugh." He tossed a pillow to the side, standing up to grab his towel. A bath would be good: warm and inviting unlike his thoughts... and feelings. "Wanna know the truth?"

 

"That's why I'm here."

 

Kuroo bit the inside of his cheek, his mind in a whirl of a multitude of reasonings that could possibly justify his emotions, could possibly testify to that lightheaded feeling rendering him fuzzy and incomprehensible. He had read about cortisol and oxytocin levels in the body spiraling upwards when attracted to someone, making a person more nervous and amorous. Seratonin levels catapulting downwards caused one to be obsessed on the object of their affections. But even with all that, the skeptical explanations couldn't suffice to his why's and how's.

 

"I think I'm falling in love."

 

Kenma stared.

 

"And I give you the permission to beat some sense into me because that's the cheesiest thing I have ever said so far in my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cry i haven't continued the story from this point yet ;_;


	4. can't resist the gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know that person is the one you've been waiting for when one of these days you'd walk on separate directions and you hope, deep down, that they'd look back to where you are standing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. wow. i've been gone a /long/ time. but! even if so much has happened in life (between rough patches and the good ones) i know i'll never abandon this story and i kept writing whenever i could. and the last chapter is here! sorry for the long wait you guys. college (and flings gone wrong) got in the way. i can't thank you enough for the comments!
> 
> chapter title is from awake or sleeping's feel-good [track](https://open.spotify.com/track/2bbjWLOO1us1zvapWWcptB). section labels use the traditional japanese names for the months in a year.
> 
> this ended up longer than it was in my head. enjoy~
> 
> originally titled: _currents_

_shimotsuki_  | frost month

 

Confrontation had a way of making the world smaller somehow. This you found out because the remaining week of November made you develop a fear for it, and so there was no other response but to run away: from him and his attempts at conversation, from him and his glances that seemingly followed the back of your neck, from him and his discrete gestures of wanting anything that could pass as physical contact - no matter how small. The response soon became instinctive during morning practice, lunch break, and afternoon training. It was tiring from day to day, but it was your only mode of survival in this tumult of emotions also worth running away from. To stand the idea of acknowledging feelings and talking to him after that _night_? Impossible. When realization dawned the morning following November 17th, you knew you had only a few ounces of dignity left and a face to yet still save. And avoidance, cultivating this fear of confrontation, may be stupid as hell to even entertain as valid logic, but it was - as was typically said - the easy way out.

 

So here you were doing the routine five days in a row now, back to eating lunch with old friends who had the keenest observation skills, and fleeing the classroom the soonest your peripheral vision caught a hint of a six-footer with messy black hair roaming the second year hall - even if it was only the mind playing tricks at the consciousness. Mostly it was just your imagination.

 

Oh how you desperately wanted this exact moment, a quarter to one on a Friday, to just be your imagination.

 

"Now what's a hot third year doing in the east wing?" you heard one of the class representatives say. You almost choked on your half-finished croissant. It somewhat came as a shock because not only was your mind attuned to its 'flight' response, but its definition of 'hot' just had to reside on the image of him swaggering the corridors.

 

"Isn't he always in the second year floor?" a classmate answered, and that was enough to affirm the inevitable. Strategically speaking, if you dropped your lunch now and made an exit for the front door (all the while relying on your friends to cover for you), you could avoid him (who'd most likely use the back door). Kuroo frequented the west wing, where classes 1 to 3 were, but never was he seen in the east wing occupied by the last two classes. He could be a slow walker, either because he thought he'd be cool doing so or it was simply his nature, so you could make a run for the nearest shortcut that evaded his route and kill some time in the library.

 

Settling with the plan, you threw the croissant to your friends. "I need to pee!"

 

"Why do you even assume you're the one he's here for?"

 

"It's better to be safe than sorry?"

 

You were inching towards the front door when they just had to corner you from both sides. The look on their faces was nowhere near pleased, not even tolerant. They may have blocked the view of the back door window, but you were certain the girly squeals from the outside didn't materialize out of thin air. He was just a few paces away.

 

"Listen. We love you, but we've had enough." Out of all the times they could possibly be condescending they chose the most inappropriate time. If you didn't love them in return you'd punch one after the other to get to the door. Before a pleadingly innocent _Enough of what?_  expression could even be registered on your reaction, however, the first level of confrontation you feared needed to push through. It was evident in their crossed arms, impatient tapping of the feet, and raised eyebrows.

 

"Going back to your story..." one of them started. The whispers within the room grew more distinct. Some of the people in class huddled to the threshold.

 

"Like I said, don't take my story seriously! I was not myself-"

 

"Just listen for a moment!" The other glanced back, more sympathetic, and moved the group near the front door out of earshot. "From your side of the story, there wouldn't be anything wrong if you two got together. It's only you who's holding back and you really haven't explained it much. Why?"

 

From the sounds that grew louder until they were deafening, to the impending doom of lunch period ending, to the fact that only a single wall separated you from him, and to the wild churning of your insides battling between just outright talking to him again (because you missed it too) and playing this outrageous game until you lost - you couldn't hold everything at once anymore.

 

"Because!" your voice quivered. "I was embarrassed! _I'm_  embarrassed! I hate what it's doing to me. I get all warm and fuzzy on the inside and something is not right. It's not comfortable, all this, and I hate it. I'm stuck in between because I _do_  want to say what I need to say to him or hear what he wants to say, but I'm scared of what comes after. Nationals is fast approaching and he's going to college and I wouldn't dare get in the way and everything that happened that night just keeps coming back and- ugh!"

 

You pushed your way through them and bolted to the front door, running to the direction you got used to all week. You skidded to a halt by the corner, the west wing coming into full view as you caught a breath. The corridor was empty and it was a relief from all the noise. The library, spacious and serving as some sort of sanctuary, stood across. You glanced back, double-checking if the coast was clear, and went in.

 

You hid among the crowded shelves, waiting for the bell to strike one.

 

.

 

_(Great. Always running away, hoping to undo this feeling. What a coward.)_

 

_(I'm a volleyball player, dammit. Not a runner off to chase someone. But still...)_

 

_(I shouldn't have done what I did that night. I shouldn't have said what I said.)_

 

_(...I can chase her as far as she'd go.)_

 

_(But I already did. And I meant every word.)_

 

_(I know what I think. I know what I feel.)_

 

_(Fuck feelings.)_

 

_(I just have to feel more and think less.)_

 

_(Really really fuck feelings in general.)_

 

_(But why does she need to avoid me?)_

 

.

 

Kuroo was having a hard week - pretty devastating, actually. On Monday his hopes of continuing wherever _they_  left off last Saturday, so he could be sure it wasn't all a dream, were crushed in _her_  completely ignoring him. Tuesday had him beginning to let go of sanity due to college preparations becoming more stressful as the year was bound to end. By Wednesday the team lost two sets to Itachiyama in a practice match, and Kuroo was convinced he was losing his touch as an efficient middle blocker. Come Thursday he dozed off in the middle of homeroom period, head stashed between the pages of a book, that Yaku apparently announced: "Sensei, I think he's dead." Yaku wasn't a hundred percent wrong about that. Kuroo _was_  a bit dead for having too much to swallow from his plate lately, that the only thing he could think of to redeem at least a tinge of his sanity was to make amends with _her_ ; even though he had no idea what he did wrong to deserve such a cold treatment. It was now one of those days, rare and heavy for the heart, that waking up in the morning felt dreadful. Heck, even Kenma seemed to be in a better mood throughout the week.

 

Kuroo understood that he had to be more obsessed in securing a spot for nationals less than two months from now, but he was nowhere near that obsession than _this_  obsession of wanting to know _why_ : just why would someone he liked - really liked - avoid him and go great lengths to continue avoiding him?

 

"We miss having lunch with her," the first years would frequently say. Kuroo couldn't particularly agree with them, lest he'd bare too much emotion and longing that his pride tightly held on to. He'd just nod and quietly eat his warm lunch that tasted cold.

 

He'd distract himself, to the point of masochist exhaustion, by studying and training more vigorously. In class he'd over-achieve in tasks more. Just the thought of doing more, and more, and _more_  was enough to have him coping well on the outside and breaking from within. When he'd find himself thinking about her laugh, her smile, and those habits of hers that he'd notice whenever she talked freely, Kuroo would spend chewing ballpen caps out of frustration. What Kenma said about hating to lose, he only realized _in_  a volleyball court - not in this realer world filled with pathetic, but not less illogical, matters of the emotion for another living soul. It wasn't love (yet), as romantic as universal definitions may impose, but it was _something_  that was driving him crazy. Kuroo detested being unable to find solutions to a problem. This was definitely one of those problems.

 

"Hey," Kuroo greeted the class representative, some guy who was a foot smaller and who looked like this was the only time he had seen a third year end up in the east wing of the second year floor. "I'm not looking for anyone, but I just want to ask one thing. What's your class project that's due the soonest?"

 

The class representative blinked. Kuroo was surprised at himself for keeping his cool and for not stuttering (he never stuttered, except when with _her_ ). He took no notice of the second year girls crowding him by the door, listening in and already planning how to relay this piece of gossip to other classes.

 

"Well, we do have a project in classical literature due on Monday..." replied the representative, counting by the finger at least three more projects. He sent Kuroo a curious glance. "Why do you want to know?"

 

"So I can look in the right section of the library." Kuroo shrugged. It was all that he needed to know. Thanking the guy, he started walking briskly to the west wing. The hall was deserted, save for a librarian returning from lunch break. He peered through the windows on the wall, seeing neither a familiar hair nor face, and went in. The shelves on the farther right were reserved for books on literature, if he remembered correctly from his last visit to the place. He scanned the aisle, noting the titles and call numbers on the spines, and easily found that familiar hair from the other side.

 

Kuroo took one book down, then a second, and a third. Once he cleared out a space to get a full glimpse of the other side, he leaned back. She had her nose buried in a rather worn out book, oblivious to his presence that hadn't been this close since that night at Ueno station. He was half watching her and half formulating how to start talking out his incoherent thoughts. Hands deep in his pockets, Kuroo cleared his throat. She looked up, aghast. The book nearly fell.

 

She was about to mutter something, yet a mere squeak came out. Kuroo ran his fingers through his hair, resting them at the back of his neck - nervous. He was dead nervous that he pleaded for the ground to consume him whole. Instead he checked the title of the book she was holding.

 

"Sei Shonagon's diaries, huh?"

 

"We... have to write a paper about our chosen topic." When she spoke, she looked down. But truly, the sound of her voice would suffice to him as of now. "I want to write about life in the palace in the Heian era. And what better way than to rely on the diaries of a female writer, right?"

 

"Right." This was good, far better than he had initially expected. He wasn't being a wreck, and neither was she. He missed this sort of interaction. This was great. "They didn't have much to do then. Blame it on the patriarchy. They were only asked to sit pretty and play instruments and stay silent and comb their hair, paint their teeth black, shave their eyebrows then paint new eyebrows, look pale white, wear twelve layers of kimono, write poetry about nature... all the while waiting for the perfect man to ask their hand for marriage."

 

Damn it all, he was babbling again. But on the contrary, he wasn't entirely damned when she looked up and grinned.

 

"They didn't have much to do?" she repeated, as though a challenge. She closed the book and laid it aside. "That was a _lot_  of things to do in a day, even in a week. How should you, Kuroo Tetsurou, know? You're a man."

 

Nope. He was damned, all right.

 

"Oh shit I didn't mean-"

 

Then she laughed, stifling it behind her hand. She shook her head disapprovingly, retrieved the book, and exited the aisle. Kuroo could only stare, powerless and humiliated. But it was the good kind of humiliated, for he was reminded of what his elders told him before: that it wasn't an all too regrettable humiliation when one genuinely wanted to make the other party smile. It was a victorious shame, should a contradiction exist, and he must be proud of that.

 

"Can we talk?" he called after her, trailing behind.

 

"But not too loud," she warned, pointing at the librarian who was already giving them a piercing look. "You have ten minutes, Kuroo-san."

 

To him, ten minutes was an eternity. "We can work on the honorifics later."

 

"Okay."

 

"But I have three questions to ask."

 

She occupied a table not far off and faced him squarely with inquisitive eyes, like she was weighing what she'd lose in answering those three questions. Would she refuse? Was it too unrealistic a favor? She didn't say anything, just pulled the chair and sat. Kuroo sat across, their knees almost touching. He adjusted his chair farther from the table out of decency. (He didn't want to, but he had to.)

 

She flipped through the pages first before sighing aloud. That was the moment Kuroo found reason to keep going again.

 

"Just three questions. Time's running, rooster-head. Start talking."

 

.

 

_(Just three? I have about ten.)_

 

_(He's got dark circles under his eyes. That's unusual.)_

 

_(I can reduce it to five. But to three?)_

 

_(His hair looks drier. Can it be any messier than this?)_

 

_(Okay. Four. I can combine the last two into one.)_

 

_(I think it's obvious that I'm sweating too much. Is he shaking his leg? He is.)_

 

_(Three questions. Got it.)_

 

_(Why is he so tanned?)_

 

.

 

The last time you were in this close a proximity with him was when you were drunk and scandalously clinging to him on the way home. Your grip on the book was too tight, nearly ripping the covers off, and his stares didn't alleviate the furious beating in your chest. What may have appeared to him as your calm and collected voice was the complete opposite: a lump was all the more magnifying in your throat, making each sound harder and harder to pronounce. You waited for him to speak, conscious of a knee brushing against the other fleetingly (and how it burned for one second). He was playing with the tip of his tie (he didn't wear his vest on), and you stole a glance at him only to register that the top button of his shirt was loose. He was getting less sleep, what with the tiredness in his eyes more evident.

 

"Why are you leaving earlier after practice?" Kuroo eventually asked, his gaze darting in any direction except yours. His tone wasn't demanding. It leaned on to something that was out of hurt. He drummed his fingers on the table.

 

"All right." You sat up and closed the book, making a mental reminder to borrow it later. "You have to understand that you guys are practicing later than usual for nationals and that I have a life outside your world. That's... the sugarcoated explanation."

 

"And I respect that." Then again, Kuroo could see right through. He could see right through anyone that it was almost uncanny. He was staring fixedly now. "But you don't have to avoid us. You don't have to avoid m-"

 

"I'm really sorry for that night."

 

"Hey." He lifted the corner of his mouth to smirk, chuckling a bit. "Don't apologize. That was one birthday night to beat. I'd do it all over again."

 

"Now that sounded kinda wrong." You raised a brow suggestively. When Kuroo winced and hid his face in his hands, you noticed his ears turning pink. You scoffed and followed it with a broken laugh. The library assistant sent your table a sharp hush.

 

Regaining his bearings, Kuroo dropped the second question in a more or less pleading manner of "Can you please have lunch with us again?"

 

"I'll drop by soon."

 

"How soon is soon?"

 

"Is that the last question?"

 

"No."

 

"Just... soon."

 

Kuroo haggled for 'soon' to be tomorrow, as he explained and ranted how they couldn't tolerate Lev and Yamamoto's combined agony much longer. Not only that, Shibayama and Inuoka made sure to relay the message via Kuroo that their grades were at their all time low; an excuse which you guessed Kuroo utilized to his advantage of appealing to emotion (and it worked). The clock's hand was just an inch nearer to ending the hour when there was another round of silence and he sighed the third question. There was desperation in his voice - almost invisible, but still there.

 

"How long are you going to avoid me?"

 

It was a stupid question, really. It made him look stupid because after all those answers and he still was egoistic enough to put himself at the center and ask something that was purely for his own benefit and should he reason that he was only making sure or that he was just insecure or just too dense... were you, in all manners honest, literally _not_  avoiding him right at this moment?

 

"Kuroo-san."

 

"It's Kuroo."

 

"Kuroo-san," you continued nonetheless. "How can I continue avoiding you if you're being very very persistent?"

 

He didn't reply. The bell rang through the halls and permeated the room. You got up to have the book marked for check-out, patting his hair on the way, but not without saying, "I'll see you guys in practice... and after that."

 

There was no point in running away when somebody as tenacious as he was got you on lockdown, like a perfectly crafted strategy on court. And in that afternoon, things returned to their usual course of normalcy; but not completely so to be considered ordinary. Something had changed upon exiting the library, when you were left thinking and he was left dumbfounded. That something wouldn't manifest until later in the dead of night when you'd end up calling him, anxious and hoping he wouldn't pick up. Yet he would. The thing was, he couldn't sleep too. And little did you know that it would become a routine starting that night to talk to him about anything.

 

.

 

_"I've read online that satin or silk pillows help get rid of bed hair."_

 

_"Kenma said the same thing."_

 

_"I think you should start investing on satin and silk pillowcases."_

 

_"But who will I be without the bed hair? I'm the hair and the hair is me."_

 

_"Fair enough, Kuroo-san. Fair enough."_

 

.

 

 _shiwasu_  | priests run

 

Sundays were typically reserved for cleaning the house, running errands, catching up on schoolwork and television episodes missed, and on some occasions dining out. There was strictly no practice every Sunday, as Nekoma-sensei was wont to emphasize his valuing family time and rest. To Kuroo, Sundays meant getting mostly the bulk of the household routine, since his mother would never fail to remind him that he was the only son around (he'd remind her that Kenma was her son too) and that he better put his advantageous height to practical use or else he could only have one serving of his favorite meal by lunch. In the end Kuroo would have watered the garden, hung the washed clothes, walked the dog, and helped in the cooking from seven in the morning until eleven. He had enough time allotted for playing a game with Kenma (which he'd always lose), or lock himself in his room for the duration of the afternoon. This Sunday in early December, however, he insisted on staying in the dining room, clad in comfy pajamas to battle the start of the cold season, and reviewed for college exams across his mother working on her laptop.

 

It was an unusual sight, and his mother immediately picked up without even straying her eyes from the screen. "Do you need anything from me, Tetsu-kun?"

 

"No, mom." Kuroo pouted, faking hurt. "I don't need any money."

 

"Well if you do, go upstairs and ask from your father."

 

"Can I not sit close to you and just... sit close to you?"

 

She looked up and smiled, chinky and bright. "That's very kind of you, dear."

 

Kuroo shrugged, returning the smile, and got back to scribbling problem sets and quadratic equations on his notebook. He had something to ask, actually, but figured it could wait until he'd find the right timing. It didn't involve college exams at all, that was one. In fact, it more or less inclined towards matters of the heart; if such a category existed. Quite soon, his grandfather joined the group on the table, sitting calmly on his knees and sipping warm ginger tea from his favorite cup. Kuroo thought of asking him, what with the old man's penchant for words spoken like a sage.

 

"Grandpa, can I ask you something?" Kuroo began, twirling his pen through his fingers. He'd look foolish, yes, but there was no other way. The old man nodded with his usual grin. "How do you know if you're in love with someone?"

 

As soon as his words left him Kuroo wished he could swallow them back. Grandpa laughed merrily, the sound ringing through the house, that Mei-chan barked in surprise from her bed by the corner. When he glanced at his mother, Kuroo found that sparkle in her eye that he often saw when she'd dote on him as though he was still a child. He buried his face in his hands, groaning, but grandpa had an answer at a ready.

 

"Let's see..." the old man cleared his throat, swirling his tea cup playfully. "Did I know back then, or did it just happen? Love doesn't make sense, Tetsu-kun."

 

"And you just know," his mother added, reaching across the table to mess with his hair. "It depends from person to person, dear. There's no strict list or standard, that's all I can say. But if it helps, your grandpa used to tell me one thing when I was younger and asking the same question."

 

Kuroo slid his hands from his face, taking note of how rarely his mom even opened up about her love life. She'd always talk of high school days with nostalgic bliss, back when boys would clamber for her affections through ingenious confessions, but that was simply that. The memories she'd bring out lacked her side of the story - what she felt and how she handled these feelings. When he'd probe the story further and get to the part where his parents met, it was already too many years ahead of high school. They met in college, when they were much older than the average teenage mind susceptible to giddy crushes, and the story would be more serious and... pragmatic. That was the word: a pragmatic love. Although, he thought, that didn't mean it wasn't tainted by a rollercoaster kind of romance.

 

"Listen closely," grandpa whispered, leaning in with a wink. "This trick transcends time. You know that person is the one you've been waiting for when one of these days you'd walk on separate directions and you hope, deep down, that they'd look back to where you are standing. If they do look back, and you say goodbye for the second time around, and you feel relieved or lucky and the situation feels a bit awkward, then that's it. Or if it's the other way around and you're the one walking, you get this urge to look back. It's all about looking back, son."

 

Kuroo sat motionlessly and blinked. It was true that he believed his grandfather all his life, that it was almost supernatural how everything the old man said made sense. Kuroo never doubted him, in spite of his growing skeptical as the years went by, and he never would; no matter how mythical his grandpa's anecdotes could be. And this one time, like any other time, he'd rely on what had been said and hold it dearly.

 

"R-right." Kuroo smiled sheepishly, now tapping his pen on the table. Both adults around him grinned proudly, returning to their tasks as though he had just asked a mundane question and not one born from a dilemma. "Thanks, grandpa. I'll keep that in mind."

 

A week later, Kuroo would think again how it was almost supernatural that everything his old man said made all the sense in this otherwise nonsensical world.

 

.

 

_"Is this gonna be a thing now? You calling me up almost every night. Be honest because I don't want to get used to it and see my hopes shattered into a million pieces across the wide wide universe."_

 

_"This is exactly why I prefer talking to a rooster. He can speak like the Enlightened One and what he says brings good dreams."_

 

_"Do you believe in aliens?"_

 

_"Is God real?"_

 

_"Are ghosts real?"_

 

_"Aliens are definitely real."_

 

_"But ghosts, though?"_

 

_"I hear rumors that there's a ghost lurking in our apartment building."_

 

_"Mei-chan barks in the middle of the night every now and then. At the foot of the stairs like she sees something up there."_

 

_"Better pray to a god if you're scared, Kuroo-san."_

 

_"I can get scared sometimes. But I do acknowledge that there is a higher power."_

 

_"Really? But you don't call it a god."_

 

_"Nope. I call it fate."_

 

_"I call it luck."_

 

_"Then I guess I'm lucky tonight."_

 

.

 

Part of the original plan for the last month of the year (as what was meant to be) was to cherish the days leading up to that one moment when rain, or even a slight drizzle, turns to snow. December had other plans, unfortunately, and they manifested in more grueling practices with the team and school examinations (but the third years were subject to the most beating, so perhaps the lower years were still lucky). The term neared its end, days grew shorter and nights longer, and there remained less than a month until nationals. The impending doom of this storm was within the horizon, and the boys only saw one goal collectively. They'd run faster, breath turning to fog, feet rampaging in a race of who could finish the most laps, as sweat-soaked black shirts mingled with the young winter air. The coaches and the captain would relentlessly shout orders, hands clapping according to command that sounded like thunder inside the gym. Shoes squeaking and thumping on the floor mimicked the imagined storm. Volleyballs being hit back and forth over the net and against the walls echoed the pulsating adrenaline and heartbeat of each member.

 

And when all the day's work would end, the same boys would crash on the floor, ready to fall asleep then and there. They never once complained, but held everything in. Cheering for them on the sidelines didn't do much, yet it was the least thing to do as you tracked their progress. That and developing quite a strategy for refilling water bottles repeatedly made up most of the workload so far.

 

"Oi, don't skip your stretches!" Coach Naoi called out. You scribbled the last details of the day's log, noting yet another overtime mark. The boys huddled in a circle and counted their stretches. Coah Naoi looked over the log, a hand under his chin. "We shouldn't overwork ourselves, but we're running out of time. Make sure to send everyone an email later to not be late for tomorrow's practice match with Fukurodani. It was hard to reserve that bus because it's that time of the year when third year classes would go to university tours."

 

You nodded, adding in the reminder. "Yes, coach. 6am like always?"

 

"Make that 7am," said Nekomata-sensei as he walked past. "You said so yourself, Naoi-kun. The boys are overworking themselves. It's Saturday tomorrow. Let them get another hour of rest. They earned it."

 

The old man didn't even look back as he talked and strolled by observing, but you knew he had that thoughtful grin. He was never one to spoil the boys, per se, because he didn't need to. Instead he served more of a reminder, an alarm clock as Kuroo said, when the team went hard on themselves.

 

"It's my fault too, you know," Kuroo further explained one morning during break. "I find it hard to control myself when training and doing tasks in general. And the rest of us get caught by it. We have to be hit on the heads once in a while for us to stop."

 

"But _I'm_  hit on the head almost everyday," Lev had joined in. Later that day his shoelaces were bundled up. He said Yaku did it (but no, it was actually Fukunaga).

 

You erased 6am and replaced it with Nekomata-sensei's suggestion. Coach Naoi simply nodded, wise enough not to argue. When you looked up from the log, the old man was beckoning you to come close. After two months of working with the team, you have found out for yourself that sensei's eyes do glint when he had an idea.

 

"The boys are all paired up for sit-ups," he whispered with a chuckle. You glanced at them, acknowledging the obvious and wondering what sensei had in mind. "But not all." He pointed at the captain, who was waiting for Kai to finish.

 

"Huh. Yes, sensei, I can see that." You shrugged, for a second distracted at Inuoka's groans as he reached the last count.

 

"Well?"

 

"Well...?"

 

The old man guffawed, patting your shoulder. "You should go and see if anyone needs an extra hand. The gym's closing up soon." He walked away, still laughing. You looked at the team again. Kuroo was there, standing with his arms crossed, looking back as if he had heard. You mirrored his gesture, just to cover the feeling of the heat creeping up your neck.

 

"Like I'm gonna assist you!" you shouted.

 

"Like I'm expecting anything!"

 

Grumbling and setting the logbook aside, you went over the court. Almost immediately (and with a triumphant grin on his stupid face), Kuroo laid down. He folded his knees erect and you locked your hands on his shoes. Times like this you'd curse at his big feet which proved it difficult to pin him down. You counted his turns silently as he grunted with each sweep of his torso going forward and up, meeting his knees. And, in one way or the other, meeting your face as close as possible.

 

"Why do I get the feeling that you're enjoying this?" he said at the fifteenth count, pausing midway like the show-off he was.

 

"Shut up," you retorted and pushed him down. "I'd like to ask you the same thing."

 

"Me? Nah." Rocking back upward, he purposely huffed at your direction and sent a gust of air blowing to your face. If his breath did stink you'd reprimand him instinctively for it. But it didn't. In fact, his breath smelled like mint. You hated that fact and frowned. He laughed breathlessly, sending in more of that minty scent. It was going to be addicting from this point onward.

 

After fifteen more counts Kuroo slumped to the floor. You gave him his towel but brushed it off. He stretched his hand out rather impatiently.

 

"Nice try. Get up yourself, Kuroo-san."

 

"But!"

 

You were about to slap his hand off when he held onto it like a lifeline. His grip was sweaty, so unlike his dry palms that night when you crossed the street to Tokyo station; yet the feeling was the same. His touch burned (and would continue to burn), sparking up your nerves and meddling with your thoughts to turn them into mush. It burned, but nothing too destructive. It was the kind of burning that brought warmth and a sense of familiarity one would bask into countless times. It was a burning you didn't want to get used to but found yourself already there.

 

He might have realized he burned as well, for he let go too soon. "Sorry about that."

 

"Um I have to start cleaning up." You clutched your hand into a fist and stood. He followed, standing up with ease.

 

"Yeah we'll follow with the cleaning."

 

You headed over to the storage closet, while he began assigning where to mop and who ought to do it. Sweeping the court and carting the balls lasted for another ten minutes, then everyone was seated in an arc before the board that showed the latest tactics Coach Naoi put up. It was emphasized that Fukurodani's ace had an inclination to do straight spikes once desperate, which Kuroo elaborated on, so it was only wise to form the blocking in such a way that Yaku could save the ball from the rearguard. From there, Kenma could utilize the spikers for a set-up. They debated whether to opt for Kuroo's personal time difference attack or a synchronized one, consuming the rest of the time until Nekomata-sensei had the last call. Their offense using a synchronized attack still lacked some polishing, so the personal time difference would be most effective. All agreed upon, the boys went back to the club room and the gym was locked up for the night.

 

"Sensei said to be here at exactly 7 in the morning!" you shouted at those who went ahead, mounting your bike. They waved back and disappeared into the corner beyond the school gates. Kenma appeared beside you, game console already in hand with its bright light and artificial sound of cannons blasting. "Hey, Kenma. New game?"

 

"Yup. Got it in Akiba this week."

 

"You're lucky! I heard that stocks ran out."

 

"I do owe Kuroo for that reservation fee, though." He was busily tapping away when the annoying game over tune came on. Glancing up with a defeated sigh, Kenma looked a bit uneasy as he spoke next. "Anyway... Kuroo said to wait for him."

 

"Oh sure." You kicked the bike's metal stand from the back wheel and sat comfortably for the meantime. "We can wait here."

 

"No, what I mean is..." Kenma trailed off, his voice barely audible, as he fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. " _You_  wait here. I have to go on."

 

"Oh. Right."

 

The sky was starless, the campus eerily silent, and as the clouds hovered above you hoped the distant sound of the cars would mask the nervous heaving within your chest. Kenma muttered a goodbye and walked ahead, glancing back like he was uncertain of something. You reassured him with a thumbs up, not knowing yourself what to be assured of. You had an inkling of what was to occur, but out of delicacy it was best not to overthink. Maybe you had run out of chances to take for granted, that this specific day at 6:30 in the evening was _it_. Maybe, just maybe, your fear of _telling_  resurfaced _now_  - not later, not sooner, but now and nothing else.

 

If courage was measured in staying and waiting there, you'd already win. But courage was not quantified by that: it was in pretending to casually greet him when he did show up slightly flustered, and in choosing to walk with him rather than speed up in the bike. You held onto the handle bars, watching the pedals turn, as both of you waited for the other to mutter something - anything.

 

"So..."

 

"So..." Kuroo was whistling now, tuning it with his steps. "We'll be having the team Christmas party next week. No need to buy an expensive gift."

 

"Gotcha." The gift would have to be clever enough and appropriate for the receiver, but you'd have a problem scouring for a sports-related item with few to zero knowledge about what these guys wanted and needed. "Will we go to a karaoke?"

 

"I think I'm still banned from our usual karaoke place."

 

"You are?!"

 

"I refused to leave the last time we were there." He chuckled emptily. "Man, that was embarrassing. Yaku and Kai won't let me forget it."

 

You urged him to spill the details, but it was futile as he kept insisting the third and second years were the right ones to be asked about it. You'd discover later on that he had to be dragged from the place even though he was more than willing to spend all of his money on the counter. But for now, you had this surrounding quiet to address.

 

"I'll drop you off at the station," you told him. Ueno station was just a few blocks away, the siren of the incoming train cutting through the night. Kuroo stopped, knuckles turning white at his sides, and you stopped.

 

"I have to tell you some-"

 

"I like you too, Kuroo-san."

 

It sounded stupid - so stupid and so irretrievable, but it was the truth. You looked up at him, with his slant eyes beneath dark fringes now wide out of surprise, then looked down and noticed his knuckles loosening. There was surprise in his rapid blinking that you mirrored, followed by recognition in dilated pupils, and finally a calmness in pursed lips that realized it was simply that: that the words were choked out with a sound, as easy as it was thought of to be difficult. Kuroo sighed, slouching.

 

"Okay. You beat me to it."

 

"Was I too straightforward?"

 

"It's because I _wasn't_  too straightforward."

 

The drizzle arrived, pattering on the roofs of the quaint houses. You couldn't help erupting into laughter, at the sudden downpour and at what had just transpired, and pulled Kuroo to hurry. You hid under red jackets slung over the head, making through an overflowing crowd also inconvenienced by the change of weather right there at the station's entrance. The next train was scheduled in less than three minutes.

 

"So that was said and done," he started, once the laughs died out. "Are we now a...?"

 

"It sounds weird saying it, don't you think?"

 

"It doesn't have to be _that_  way."

 

"But I guess we are." You tugged at the cuff of his jacket, fingers lingering over his hand that was partly trembling. For a brief moment there was hesitation, combined with a want to hold him like he did earlier (though gently, not desperately). But upon realizing something, you punched him on the arm instead. "Hey that wasn't fair! You didn't say at all that you like me! _I_  was the one who did!"

 

"I was about to say it!"

 

"Still not fair."

 

"All right, all right." Kuroo reached down, cautiously like he was testing the waters, and laced his hand through yours. It felt strange, uncanny that it fit well. He was looking away. "I like you. Since you walked into the gym on your first day. Then I started liking you more, too much actually, when we started talking. You've been working hard for us and... I thank you for that."

 

You wanted to tell him he had been working hard too, that you reciprocated this giddy feeling because of his endearing quirks and smartass ways; that it was an admirable trait of his when he'd look out for his friends and his family. You wanted to tell him much much more, but felt like all these things wouldn't suffice, and so you settled with squeezing his hand. You had no idea how this would work, but so long as it had been said - this lump on the throat eating you up - then you were willing to try.

 

"What kind of guy looks away when he's confessing?"

 

"An idiot."

 

"You have to get on that train, Kuroo-san."

 

"Can't hear you."

 

You smiled, letting go of his hand. "You have to get on that train, Kuroo."

 

"Finally."

 

Rain turned to snow that evening. When you took off, with him waiting in line by the train doors, you looked back and waved goodbye for the second time around. He almost thought you wouldn't.

 

.

 

_"So. About that thing earlier..."_

 

_"Yeah, Kuroo, tell me about earlier."_

 

_"We're dating now..."_

 

_"You only realized?"_

 

_"Still feel like I'm dreaming. I have no idea how to tell the family. And the team."_

 

_"Oh that would be easy for you. They dote on us."_

 

_"Ha-ha. I won't hear the last of this when I start telling."_

 

_"Then the whole school will know."_

 

_"Then Bokuto will know."_

 

_"Then the other Tokyo teams will know."_

 

_"Then the crows will know."_

 

_"Shut it. You're not that popular, Kuroo."_

 

_"Who's that person again who owns a big box of confession letters?"_

 

_"Hey, be modest."_

 

.

 

A week passed with Kuroo racking his brains out on what it actually meant to _date_  someone and _how_  to do it properly. The news wasn't evenly spread in campus (and thank heavens such was the case). His classmates had an idea, judging by how frequently he'd drop by the second year corridors (and it wasn't just to tutor Kenma), or in that his mood was even more elevated lately despite merciless exams. But other than the whole team knowing the gist of it, nobody cared enough (just when Kuroo thought he was popular for at least half the campus to care). Why would anyone guess? It wasn't like _they_  were a couple. A confession had happened, yes, but things were more normal than romantic. Talk about it being anti-climactic, but Kuroo had yet to figure out the tips and turns of the dating world. He wouldn't call the girl in question his girlfriend _yet_ , and never would he _own_ her. He remembered clearly that they were both okay with the arrangement: same old, same old, with the aspirations of the team at the center of it all. He'd talk to her still, more often in fact (and much later in the night over murmured phone calls), but the truth was out there that he knew there was something _missing_.

 

Deep down lurching in his gut, Kuroo wanted to hold her hand wherever they went, free and uninhibited, as though it was the most natural thing to do. He wanted to bare more of his thoughts and insecurities, with him knowing hers in return. He wanted this whole thing to become instinctive, like walking towards the station or shutting the alarm off at the same time every morning.

 

And he couldn't give himself the best advice, so he began searching among the most trusted confidantes. He set a Saturday afternoon analyzing his motivations, going as far as writing them on a whiteboard in his room, and spent breaks asking around the house without giving a damn for looking stupid. Grandpa's advice was too outdated, although sensible as always. When Kuroo asked his mother, she would rather express her joys in his success than give actual advice. When he went upstairs and knocked on his father's study, the only thing he got was a proud pat on the shoulder and a "Start getting handsy!" statement that he ascertained wasn't proper in a budding relationship. "It will be useful later on," said his father with a wink. Kuroo merely replied with a nervous laugh and ran back to his room.

 

He called Kenma to come over, having no one within his age to rely on, and waited by rummaging through his cabinets. Kuroo groped around in the cramped space, upturning piles of unworn clothes he ought to donate, until his hands felt the dusty lid of a box in the corner. He hadn't bothered to check this box since forever; with forever defined as the last time someone gave him a confession letter back in spring. He took it out, hastily wiped the lid with a washcloth, and knelt in front of it.

 

"What are you doing?" Just then Kenma arrived, wearing an oversized sweater and nursing a mug of hot chocolate. "And that's not volleyball strategies on your board."

 

"Obviously," Kuroo grunted. He opened the box, chewing his lip in deep thought. "I told you to come over because I need _sound_  dating advice. And being the practical friend you are, I want to know your input."

 

Kenma hummed knowingly, taking a sip from the mug. "Yeah, clearly, but what are you doing with _that_?"

 

"I want to shred all these letters."

 

"Because?"

 

"I don't need them anymore."

 

So Kuroo did. He stood, lifting the box by the handles on the sides, and laid them atop his table where the shredder was. He used to enjoy the task of shredding his father's old work papers when he was younger, volunteering to the point of accidentally shredding even the important ones. By the next minute, his once quiet room was filled with the buzzing of papers mechanically torn to rectangular pieces. Kenma sat on the edge of his bed, sipping and watching, occasionally recollecting here and there how this one letter came to be: all of them having unique stories, all of them having been accumulated since middle school.

 

"You sure you want to include that?" Kenma was pointing at a baby blue envelope that shimmered with glitter. Kuroo raised a curious brow. "I mean it's carefully written the way good literature are written. You have to admit the haiku she inserted is thought-provoking."

 

"I've read better haikus, Kenma." He slid the envelope through the opening, the machine immediately eating it. "But yes, the letter is poetic. If your standards are stuck in first year high school."

 

"What a critic."

 

Kuroo reached the bottom layer of the bunch, sliding in the last two lovelorn letters. Once done and being tempted by the scent of hot chocolate that Kenma purposely drank slowly, he went into the kitchen. He returned with Kenma scrolling through a phone that kept beeping notifications. Kuroo peeked through his shoulder.

 

"You posted on social media my need for advice?!"

 

"I didn't include your name."

 

"But still-"

 

"Fukunaga says you should learn how to cook." Kenma handed him the phone, shrugging. "And by cooking, not candy ramen."

 

Kuroo huffed, almost stinging his tongue by the drink. He scrolled through the comments for the top post: they were even more foolish than the advice he already got. Fukunaga managed to attach a link of an article with empirical data, proving that men who knew how to cook were more liked by women. The statistics said enough, but Kuroo doubted the accuracy and possible demographics behind it.

 

"Clickbait articles." He frowned. "You know my cooking experience is only candy ramen. And I follow the instructions so well, mind you. I make the best candy ramen in all of Tokyo. You should be proud."

 

Kenma retrieved the phone, shutting it off. He placed the empty mug on the table and observed Kuroo sternly. Judging by that pointed look, it was one of those instances that no one would cross Kozume Kenma lest he explode. The last time Kuroo was at the receiving end of his bestfriend's once-in-a-super-blue-blood-moon eruption, he had it coming (after that, he made sure he'd only win for the first and last time in a video game). He remembered those days more than a year ago when Yamamoto too was on the receiving end of Kenma's pent-up temper. It wasn't a nice picture, since the two weren't really the best of friends upon first meeting. But other than those times, Kenma was not one to display frustration overtly unless necessary. Kuroo hoped now was not one of those necessary instances, just because he was acting stupid by asking love advice when his answer was as plain as summer day.

 

"Look," Kenma began. His stern expression ebbed away with a sigh and downcast eyes, resorting instead to fumbling with the edges of his sweater. "You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not. The girl already likes you, so why not keep going at it? Talk to her, listen, show interest without thinking about what others think. Just be you and _ask_. Not ask me or anyone, but _her_. Ask what she expects, wants, and needs. And _please_ put on the labels already."

 

Sometimes, Kuroo wondered if video games did hold the secrets to the world. And yet, he was forgetting the often overlooked fact that Kenma was more calculating than he could ever be - always taking in information, always watching the environment.

 

"I guess you're right," Kuroo replied, slumping to his chair and rocking it back and forth. "It's like those otome games: in order for the story to move forward you have to pick the option that best suits you as a player."

 

Kenma looked up, scandalized. "How on earth do you know how otome games work?"

 

"Hey I'm not the one who has it installed in my phone!" It was a story for another time, but mainly it was Kuroo's insomnia that drove him to drain the battery of Kenma's phone one night in training camp.

 

"Invasion of privacy," Kenma muttered, tapping away to change yet again his passcode. "And that's not how otome games work. Sometimes you intentionally choose other options depending on the route so you have another outcome of the story. _But going back_  to your case, that's all I have to say."

 

Kuroo laughed, that slapping-the-knee and annoyingly triumphant one of his. He jumped from his chair and started erasing the scribbles on the board. "Yeah, thanks for that. I just needed to see sense."

 

"For a tactician you have few to zero knowledge about emotions in the real-world."

 

"Look who's talking of irony."

 

"You don't have to look beyond volleyball." Kenma rolled his eyes, standing to help in arranging the room back to how it was: with the shredder emptied of paper and the box tucked in the cabinet. "You don't miss a chance in emphasizing open communication to make the play effective. That's just how it goes with your situation. Except, it's based on mushy feelings."

 

They were called in for a snack of fried gyoza; and coupled with the image of a warm kotatsu set up in the dining area, both were outside in a matter of seconds.

 

"I also have a favor to ask," Kuroo whispered. "We're three hours away from the Christmas party. You _have_ to help me buy a gift. Something intellectual... something that represents me as the giver..."

 

Three hours later, Kenma made him buy the most expensive book of contemporary poetry in the store. He said it would compensate for Kuroo's dramatic speeches.

 

.

 

_"I'm not kidding. This dynamic duo from Karasuno is surreal. You have a middle blocker spiking with his eyes closed, and a setter who brings the ball precisely to him. The last time we saw them this shrimpy could do a rebound."_

 

_"And you're telling me this now because....?"_

 

_"You know I have to be confident in front of everyone that we can beat any team that comes our way. But I can't help doubting sometimes. I hear people describe us as a boring team. Because we don't have the flashy plays others have."_

 

_"Okay, hear me out. When I watch you guys play... you all are strong. Not the brash kind of strong, but the steady kind. Interdependent and stable. I only see a single player with one function on court, not individuals."_

 

_"Can you see me blushing at the end of the line? You're too nice."_

 

_"But I'm being honest! You guys are strong and when you play there's this reassurance that things will turn out okay. Like knowing there's a train coming when the platform starts to rattle. You don't rely a hundred percent on the announcer in the station. You rely on how the platform shakes and how the wind rushes past."_

 

_"You could have just used the sun rising everyday as an example."_

 

_"But that would be too cliche, wouldn't it?"_

 

_"Well, I don't see anything wrong with saying cliche stuff."_

 

_"You mean your pre-game speeches. Got it."_

 

_"Hey."_

 

_"Yeah?"_

 

_"Merry Christmas."_

 

_"I keep wondering why we celebrate a western holiday."_

 

_"But you can't deny that it's fun."_

 

_"Merry Christmas, Kuroo."_

 

.

 

 _mutsuki_  | affection month

 

You were standing on the edge of a waterfall so high you could almost grasp the clouds. There was no fear within, only reckless abandon, and you stepped into thin air - dropping, descending, the fall seemed to last too long. You crashed into a bottomless pit, the cold and raging water engulfing you. You stretched out your hand, sinking deeper, with the sun glowing like a blurry orb from beneath the surface. You could see a shadow hiding the sun, his figure hovering above you, his hand reaching out into the deep. You opened your mouth, only to discover you could breathe. You heard nothing, nothing, until faint voices grew clearer and the buzzing of a bedside alarm clock grew louder. It was 10am, January 1st, and what more appropriate way was there than to start the year by hearing your mother's nagging voice.

 

"Wake up!" Her voice was sounding shrill again, which was always so when she was panicking. You groaned against the pillow, rubbing your eyes out of frustration because all you wanted was to remember the dream; but that could wait until later. Cabinet doors were flung aside, with a towel thrown at your face. "Grandma can't wait to see you in the living room. Aunts and uncles will be dropping by today and you're still in bed! Go clean yourself up then make some tea, dear."

 

Left alone again, you dragged your feet across the floor and went in the bathroom. As animated chattering rang from the dining room, the gushing tap water from the faucet reminded you of the dream - wasn't it an omen of some sorts? It surely didn't feel like a nightmare so it should mean well. Superstitious people would believe in the significance of the first dream of the year. Were you among them? You splashed cold water on your face and shut the faucet off. Your eyes still looked puffy in the mirror. Late night phone calls were probably the cause - the only cause.

 

You walked back to your room and shot Kuroo a message: _Waterfalls in dreams and falling from them. Any thoughts?_

 

He replied instantly: _The only falling I can interpret is one where I'm falling for you._

 

_Touche. Happy New Year._

 

_Aw. No comeback?_

 

_I'm also falling for you, stupid._

 

_You'll land safely._

 

After a bundle of sappy messages exchanged, Kuroo did oblige to provide an analysis of the dream (but the part where he was also there was intentionally left out). He asked of plans for the day, and that was your chance to rant the long list of chores to accomplish because relatives were arriving one by one. A shrine visit seemed unlikely, but you hoped you could go tomorrow or on the next day. He said he already visited the Meiji shrine with his family last night, which was a big mistake since the place was suffocating of people. It was their first and last time holding the hatsumode in the most popular shrine in Tokyo. According to him, at least the free cups of warm sake by the streets were good.

 

You left the last message at that, slightly jealous of the idea since you _had_  been craving for a quick drink. You slipped on your most comfortable clothes and went straight to the living room. Grandma was sitting on the couch, attentively watching the morning news. You rushed to her side and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

 

"How much you've grown! And your chest-"

 

"Grandma-"

 

"Size doesn't matter, my dear.  Big or small, boys will always be crazy about them. Your grandfather-"

 

"Look, grandma!" You pointed at the screen. "They're talking about the volleyball tournament! It's a few days away."

 

The old lady squinted, adjusting her glasses. "Are you playing for a team?"

 

"Not exactly. But I'm manager for our boys' volleyball team. They made it to nationals. I think they can win."

 

"And you're the only girl in that team?"

 

"Y-yes?"

 

"Anyone caught your eye yet?"

 

"Well... there's this captain-"

 

Just then the doorbell rang and you stood up to get it, but not without registering the twinkle in grandma's eye that simply said you owed her a story about this boy. More older relatives poured in and you arranged their shoes on the shelf. You had completely forgotten about the tea, even the task of cleaning the bathtub, and so you went ahead and boiled water in a kettle and in a pot - one for tea and one for removing the grime on the tub. The morning hours tolled by, rushing from one room to the next, greeting aunts and uncles and cousins who asked the generic questions: How was school? Anything interesting to tell? Any confession letters for the past year? You'd answer most truthfully, even for the last. There were no confession letters involved, after all, only actual words spoken in the night it first snowed. But they didn't need to know that.

 

You headed back to the bathroom to resume the scrubbing, the air suddenly warm as you were slowly drenched in sweat. When your phone rang, you needed not to look at the caller ID anymore.

 

"Please get me out of here, rooster-head."

 

"Family giving you a hard time?"

 

"They're nice but... too nice."

 

Kuroo chuckled from the end of the line. "The third years will visit a shrine tonight. Kenma will tag along. Wanna go with us?"

 

"I will be most grateful. What shrine?"

 

"We still have no idea. Probably a less crowded place." You could see his face, scrunched up in deep thought for something so mundane. "Are you scrubbing a bathtub?"

 

"Yes. My hands smell like bleach now. Hey, I know a pretty underrated shrine."

 

"Nothing's underrated in Tokyo, love."

 

The scrub dropped with a clank. Sitting there in the tub, bleach and warm water soaking you up, you could vaguely distinguish that somersault movement - or punch, or kick, or whatever - in your belly. A second of silence stretched from between the two lines, static and heavy breathing the only things prevalent.

 

"What's that you said?" you whispered.

 

"I said nothing's underrated in Tokyo."

 

"No, the last one."

 

"I asked if you're scrubbing a tub."

 

"Nevermind." You rolled your eyes and surmised he could see you too. "What time is most convenient? I know just the right place and we can meet at the station nearest it. I'll send you the directions in just a bit."

 

"8pm after dinner? We'll take you home before midnight."

 

"All right, love."

 

"Wait what did you-"

 

"Bye!"

 

You set aside the phone and picked up the scrub again, returning to the unfinished corner of the tub - bleached hands seemingly less tired as a laugh escapes your mouth and bounces off the bathroom walls in echoes. Soon it was lunchtime and everyone was huddled together on the table, inhaling the aroma of shoyu ramen distributed in various bowls. They spoke of work, the holidays, and politics. The last topic proved to be difficult to reconcile due to vast differences, but it was promised that they would sort it out over a few (to copious) bottles of beer later on. The gossip and debates didn't stop until afternoon, and you got the chance to explain to your mother the plans for the night. As it turned out, she was even more ecstatic than you were that she 'accidentally' let loose the plan to rest of the household.

 

"But what are you going to wear?" they asked. Honestly, why were they too nice?

 

"Um... casual clothes?"

 

"That won't do!"

 

They really were too nice, going as far as ransacking your closet and suggesting combinations of shirts, skirts, or pants. The hunt ended hopelessly, though; but grandma had yet to appear by the doorway, holding a box tied with a dainty ribbon. She had on that meek smile, but to those who truly knew her it was a triumphant and proud smile. You took the box, thanked her, and peeped inside.

 

It would take you approximately one to two hours to wear _that_.

 

.

 

_"Are you guys at the station already? Did you wait long?"_

 

_"Yes, we took the Chiyoda line. And no, we haven't been waiting long. It's Kenma by the way. Kuroo's currently geeking out with the others."_

 

_"I'm walking as fast as I can. Huh. Isn't he always?"_

 

_"He says he's been wanting to visit Nezu shrine since his last visit there more than ten years ago. To quote, 'The fact that the shrine escaped the air raids during the war is something to marvel at'."_

 

_"And let me guess... he also said something about the azaleas?"_

 

_"He says we should definitely come back on April. Again, to quote, 'Let the sakura be damned. Azaleas need more attention'."_

 

_"He never misses a point. Hey, I'm here at the entrance. What a crowd. Kenma?"_

 

_"Yo, it's Kuroo again. Sorry 'bout that. Can you wave your hand so we can see you? We're standing by the restrooms. Just look for the wild puff of hair."_

 

_"I can see you guys. Just trying to push through. See me waving now?"_

 

_"Is that y- oh shit. I am ruined."_

 

_"Kuroo?"_

 

.

 

He pressed the red button and ended the call, his words fading into the winter wind and his hand going limp at the side. Kuroo was certain the throng of people began to move slowly, deliberately, their feet stepping at a delayed pace (about a second of delay, even two at most). His voice was frozen ice against his throat, his mind at an ethereal place and distant from this noisy station, as he looked (and he didn't dare divert his gaze) at her. While the crowd around him seemed to move at a delayed pace, she appeared to be floating. While the crowd shouted holiday greetings and rambled at their own phone conversations, he could only hear a muffled sound - a muffled laugh, until he felt his soul returning to its physical form again.

 

She was laughing - hands on her knees, head bowed down, shoulders shaking. And for a moment he forgot why. He forgot that _that_  was also the first reaction of Yaku and Kai upon seeing him tonight.

 

"You're wearing one too!" she exclaimed, pointing a shaky finger at him. Her sleeves were flowing - flowing with the winter wind, attuned with her undying laugh, more of a melody than a mockery. "You're wearing a kimono too!"

 

Ah, yes. But _his_  was nothing compared to _hers_.

 

"Well," Kuroo sighed, a chuckle escaping his lips. He couldn't properly breathe - maybe his hakama was too tight? Or maybe...

 

Let the sakura be damned. Let the azaleas be damned. Let spring be damned, for spring was already here before his eyes. It was in the vibrant patterns of the tsukesage she wore, in the pouch she carried that may possibly be hiding her heart, in the artificial flowers on her hair that seemed real enough to smell, in the blush creeping up her cheeks, in the intricate obi hugging her waist, in the simple yet magnificent way she did her face... or perhaps there was nothing on her face? She was merely more radiant as ever in winter... in winter that was already spring.

 

"He wears a kimono every year!" Yaku chimed in, that annoying laugh joining hers. He slapped Kuroo's arm repeatedly. "But we never really get used to it. It's become the most anticipated sight for our New Year. The shrine visit now only comes second."

 

"Family tradition, he says," Kai added, smiling. "But for all we know he just enjoys wearing one. He loves the attention."

 

Kuroo shrugged Yaku's hand off with a groan. "I do _not_."

 

If he were to be frank with himself, his embarrassment only doubled. This girl in a tsukesage kimono catching everybody else's eye made him look all the more pitiable. Should he have known that _her_  outfit would incline to the formal, Kuroo _would_  have pleaded his elders into buying him a new and classier kimono. To think that his haori had been patched up once from the inside...

 

Still, his embarrassment had a more truthful cause: he couldn't help staring, and to stare he did. Where was the fairness in dating a woman clearly out of his league?

 

Right. They were _dating_. He was _dating_ her.

 

"So where's the wedding?" Kenma asked, not looking up from his phone. Before Kuroo could even retaliate, a pout gracing his scrunched up face, Kai pushed him forward into the streets. She was holding back giggles now, and with that Kuroo's annoyance evaporated into the moonlit sky. He forgot how cold it was. All he could feel was a warmth circling him and a blaze sparking in the pit of his stomach. She paused in her walking and waited for him at her side. He didn't deserve to be at her side. Hell, he didn't deserve to be dating her. He didn't deserve-

 

"You look great, Kuroo," she said. Coming from her, no more laughs and all, it felt the most sincere. "You're such a nerd, you know that?"

 

"And you're such a beauty, you know that?"

 

No, he deserved this. He truly did.

 

"Not many people say it."

 

"Let me say it to you every single day, then."

 

She shook her head, eyes crinkling and the corner of her mouth lifting, and she slid her arm through his. They were back on that Saturday of November, the day he turned eighteen, the night he realized he now wanted to walk her home from the station as often as he could. There were no claps of thunder, no hint of rain, only an absent snow and a winter that felt like early spring. The tabi on his feet were to him like wings, and he knew he wanted to keep this going, knew he wanted her close for a long long time. Perhaps he'd start believing in New Year wishes now...

 

"This is actually my first New Year wearing one," she whispered. They both blended with and stood out from the crowd piling at the centuries-old torii gate. Kuroo slightly bowed, the others following suit, as they passed through and walked on the side path. From the multitude of people bustling about, it was somewhat difficult to distinguish the center from the side - the path of the gods and the path of the mortals. Kuroo still remembered how he received a stern look from his grandfather one time when he ran on the center path. He was only five then.

 

Glancing at the back to make sure no one was left behind, he felt the grip on his arm loosening. She no longer was holding on to him; she had both her hands clasped to her front, while her gaze took in every corner and space before her, a sense of awe plastered on her face pale against the moonlight. Kuroo couldn't help looking at her, and he couldn't help looking around him. The trees and plants were dead, the ground steeped in a few inches of snow, the lights above casting shadows on white, the flow of the fountains and the ponds solidified. Everything was at a stop, was lifeless, yet here he was concluding the otherwise. Everything was alive in a season known for death, and this woman beside him ought to be walking on the centermost path. Tonight she was immortal.

 

"Compared to the other shrines," he heard Yaku say, "this one's quieter. It's like I found peace within myself. And to think we should be losing our minds because nationals is in four days."

 

Every temple and shrine in Tokyo was crowded as it could get, but here he could still move about and breathe a little easier given the relatively lesser people. Some were taking photos of the area and of their own families and friends, sporting both casual and traditional wear; some were lounging by the bridges and the balcony overlooking the koi pond, squinting their eyes to see blurred movement of fish beneath the ice; and some were lining up to the bell, to the portion where free sake was offered, to the area where prayers were hung on ropes, or to the daruma dolls sold in all sizes. Kuroo could hear the coins tossed, the bells ringing, the cheery crowd buzzing or singing tunes, the greetings delivered in varying pitches and tones.

 

He felt a tug at the sleeve of his kimono. He looked down at her pulling him to crouch low. "Watch your head, dummy," she warned.

 

Kuroo realized that he was being pulled under an array of smaller torii colored in orange and black inscriptions. His dazed mind thought of passing through so many worlds now, with all these archways decked across the shrine's grounds that he must had been living different lives - different, yet all were a witness to this one miracle. Animal statues of faded bronze surveyed him from their pedestals; bits of snow fell from the torii above, sending shivers on his head; and the azalea... they must be there somewhere out of the crowd's reach, hibernating for when spring would come.

 

"We're walking through history," was all Kuroo could mutter. Even Kenma was observing the place when he should be snapping photos here and there. The torii led them to the inner pavilion, where more orange-colored architecture aligned the shrubbery to form latticed walls. Signs were scattered about, reminding people that they were entering national cultural property and a sacred space.

 

The group halted at the end of the queue leading up to the main shrine. To Kuroo's side was a wide basin filled to the brim. Ladles were dipped and the water scooped into cupped hands for the cleansing of the mouth. One by one they performed the ritual, returning to their spot in the line with chattering lips and freezing hands. As they waited Yaku demanded the full story of the kimonos. Did they talk about it in advance, or was it purely coincidence? _Or_  was it destined?

 

"I really just allowed my family to dress me up like a doll," she explained with a shrug. "It only happens now, so why not give it a go? But _Kuroo_  here is a veteran in kimono-wearing. _That's_  a story I'd love to know." She raised a brow at him.

 

"It started with dad, actually." Kuroo rolled his eyes, chuckling. He relayed the nostalgic experience of seeing his father one New Year's eve, dressed like the men he saw in textbooks and museums. Since then, Kuroo had been copying him until he was the only one in the family conscientious enough to wear a freaking kimono every single year without fail. Once in every twelve months served as a sufficient reason to celebrate the formality of it all, even though sometimes he wished he was clad in layers of thicker clothing and was wearing boots instead of zori.

 

"It has pockets," added Kenma, flipping the haori to reveal where Kuroo had been hiding his phone and wallet before he could even protest. They were stepping closer now to the bell, the ringing and the clapping of goers becoming louder. The topic of last Christmas party's presents came up again, much to Kenma's insistence to not talk about the past's horrors anymore.

 

Yaku waved it off. "That's the only time I'd agree with Lev. He knows exactly what Christmas presents to give."

 

"You _do_ wear the headband he gave, though. At home." Kuroo smirked, nudging his bestfriend's shoulder. _She_  burst laughing again, contagious even for Kenma to smile just a bit. Lev gifting Kenma a package of multi-colored headbands ("One for each day, Kenma-san!") went down in the team's history. Where the others were given items ranging from an anthology of modern poetry to the most mundane of objects ("A hair-straightener?!"), Kenma's was the most practical. At least it would be easier for him to focus on his games without stray hair blocking the view. Yamamoto didn't let him live it down, however, now anticipating next year's party so that he could give Kenma a box of hair scrunchies. Kenma promised that he'd give Yamamoto a Lolita dress with a matching wig.

 

They reached the front of the line, voices hushing and moods turning solemn. The bell was rung, hands were clapped twice, bodies were bowed to the waist, coins were tossed (Kuroo threw all of his, thinking if he should throw his heart too as a sign of thanks), wishes were murmured. When she asked him a little while later what he asked the gods, he simply mentioned three things: personal relationships, nationals, and college. When she wondered if the list was in that exact order, from highest priority to the least, he replied that he was already thankful to be included in nationals. Should Nekoma win overall, then, they'd be more than blessed - they'd be heroes.

 

"Besides," he said, as the group dispersed for the meantime. "I believe in the team's ability more than I believe in the blessing of the gods."

 

She smiled. "And you believe more in your admirable capacity to get into UTokyo than you believe in sheer luck."

 

"Now, now, let's not brag about this."

 

"This is your year. I know it because you'll do anything to make it yours." She looked at the frozen pond below - fingers trailing along the cold wooden railing, eyes scanning for any glimpse of a carp swimming, that its colors may emerge from a hole in the ice. As she spoke, the mist from her mouth clouded her face for a fleeting second. "This is everybody's year. We make up our own fates."

 

Kuroo observed the grounds about him: Kenma was snapping photos of the lights, Yaku was taking his chance with the written oracles, and Kai was buying an omamori from the stalls. He turned to her, attaining some form of conclusion that he wouldn't need any omamori or lucky amulet or daruma doll. He already had his spring.

 

"But didn't you say you believe in luck and fate?" he asked, a crease on his head evident. "But you also say we make them all up. You, ma'am, are a walking contradiction - and logic says we should always aim for coherence."

 

"We make them all up so they have to be real, right? They're real to us."

 

"Don't you dare 'reality is relative' me."

 

"But you believe in ghosts!"

 

"Mei-chan might just be barking at my grandmother's spirit!"

 

They bickered the philosophical and all too normal between wheezing laughter, playful slaps, and ruffling of hair, until hands were no longer cold in the midst of the other's palm. Silent, it began snowing the exact moment a vendor of paper umbrellas passed by, and she bought one too small for the two of them to share. The clock on the pavilion was nearly striking ten. Kuroo removed his hand from hers, grazing his thumb across her cheek that was warm - warm like a cup of New Year sake, warm like the kotatsu at home, warm like paper lanterns trapped within him and waiting to be freed in the sky. The kimonos would be soaked in snow, but he didn't mind any of it because all he felt was warmth. It wasn't a heat that burned. It was just enough to let him survive the winter night until spring comes in the morning.

 

But spring was here, and he was a walking contradiction too. Spring was here, and he was both cold and warm. Spring was here, too close to feel her breath, slightly moving the paper umbrella down to shield their faces from the prying crowd (yet the crowd paid no heed). Spring was here and he was looking at her, until he leaned in and she leaned in - until he was kissing her. Spring had soft lips, cautious at first but giving in. Spring made sakura and azalea bloom inside him - a saturated fragrance waking the lifeless season into young love.

 

Whether the clock struck ten, he never knew. All he knew was perhaps time stopped in its rushing tracks, that he skipped a few months and landed on April, that the perishability of moments made them all the more beautiful.

 

All he knew was that he was kissing spring.

 

.

 

_"Kuroo, I've been wanting to ask you something."_

 

_"If it's about the kiss I'm all ears. Was I good or was I sloppy?"_

 

_"Not that, stupid."_

 

_"I am hurt."_

 

_"But... you were good. Equally good and sloppy."_

 

_"Oho."_

 

_"Anyway."_

 

_"Yes?"_

 

_"You ever think you'll worry about the team when you leave?"_

 

_"Not exactly worry. I have high hopes for them. Kenma's sticking around after I convinced him enough, Yamamoto's captain material (just have to tone down his obnoxiousness), Lev's keeping his promise of becoming ace (but Fukunaga and Inuoka are also in top shape), Shibayama's determined to be the best libero, the coaches are fine as always, we'll have new first years, and... you'll be around. No need to worry about the team."_

 

_"I'll have to correct you, though. Those are not high hopes. Those are high expectations and man I'm pressured."_

 

_"Come on, you'll do just fine. Also, it's not only worry that I'm going to feel. It's more of... I'll miss the team. Terribly."_

 

_"You won't play in college anymore?"_

 

_"Still thinking about it."_

 

_"By the way..."_

 

_"Yeah?"_

 

_"You sure the prospects of Taketora and Kenma arguing again are in Fukunaga's good hands?"_

 

_"The prospect of that has reached its all time low. The two are basically besties now. Look at me and Yakkun."_

 

_"Okay okay. One more thing."_

 

_"Hm?"_

 

_"I'm in love with an idiot who acts like he's cool."_

 

_"Correction: You're in love with the coolest guy who occasionally acts like an idiot."_

 

_"Even better."_

 

* * *

 

January had you finding him alone at the corner of the stairwell: quiet and tense, while the whole of Sumida gymnasium was witness to this festive scene of hopeful victors. He was thinking, and thinking, analyzing every outcome worth his mind, only awakened from his reverie when you tapped his shoulder. You smiled, said the team needed their captain before the first match (sappy speeches and all). He replied with his sheepish grin, stepping inside to join that throng of red jerseys and banners ablaze.

 

February had him all flustered at the pile of wrapped chocolates on his table. Just when he thought that girls were still chasing after him (a persistent handful still did), he found out that the team was responsible for the cupid-themed mess greeting him in the classroom. He was flustered, annoyed, endeared, humored. Later on in the afternoon he had comfort again, disguised as a tub of chocolate ice cream given by her. He said she didn't have to. She said she wanted to.

 

March had you waking up to White Day with no chocolates, only cups of sake and rounds of koi-koi in the lively atmosphere of his home. He got accepted to university with a scholarship grant, and the family celebration was grander than it was months ago. The third years crashed on the tatami floor, drunk and waving a valid reason that they were finally done with their examinations. They cried their initial goodbyes that night, reminiscing when they were only first years. Kenma got it on video.

 

April had him running on the blossomed path of the campus after graduation ceremony. A striped tie was missing from his neck, for he held it tightly as he ran and ran to meet his spring and give it to her as a memento. He won't be saying goodbye. He only came to see spring in full bloom, waiting for him at the end of this path with happy tears and congratulations. He'd tell her he still wanted to know how she did her coffee (or if she preferred tea). He'd tell her they'd still see the azaleas in the shrine.

 

Summer had you. Autumn had him. And winter had everything alive all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap everybody :')
> 
> p.s. i /might/ write iwaoi next within this year
> 
> p.p.s. THE MANGA UPDATES ARE KILLING IT

**Author's Note:**

> please please review! let me know what you guys think and i will love you forever!


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